».. 11 



mt^^M 






J^\ 






.^::>^ '^ 



'5Jtppfiii 



r- 






^■ 



'^' 



'Vk* 



%^ 






>V^'^ 



*55r;. 



tt 



f"<^ 



'4'>, 



.v:jv 



r:M' 



> .T 



•vK4 



r . ' ^» 



^\'J^ 






v.:^iil 



^/-■^ 



!^ 



:V:'T- 






*^:^ 



H■'^*i^^ 



m 






/. I. 



':J. 



^n 



.Ar>' 



if':;^ 



ir^.'to 



• . ■-. .■•<-, 









:-y. 



■^T 



wi^iij 






,s4 



-Mi 







aass__ -p'xi^.^L^':) c 



Book 



1 1, 'tj a 



PRESENTED BY t^4 ^ 




y 



THE 

WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS: 



\VITH 



AN ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE, 



AND 



CRITICISM ON HIS WRITINGS 



TO WHICH ARE PREFIXED, 

SOME OBSERVATIONS ON THE crikRACTER AND CONDITION OF THi; 

SCOTTISH PEASANTRY. 



BY JAMES CURRIE, M. D. 



A NEW EDITION, 

WITH MANY ADDITIONAL POEMS AND SONGS, 
From the latest London Editions, 
EMBELLISHED WITH THIRTY-THREE ENGRAVINGS ON WOOD. 






PRINTED BY J. BOOTH AND SONS, 
1832. 



(. 



^^ :. - . 



iJ .-. 



V 



. ^r«- 



ON 



THE DEATH OF BURNS 



BY MR. ROSCOE. 



Rear high tliy bleak, majestic hills, 

Thy shelter'd valleys proudlj' spread, 
And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills, 

And wave thy heaths with blossoms red ; 
But, ab! what poet now shall tread 

Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign, 
Since he the sweetest bard is dead 

That ever breath'd the soothing strain ? 

As green thy towering pines may grow, 

As clear thy streams may speed along ; 
As bright thy summer suns may glow, 

And wake again thy feathery throng ; 
But now, unheeded is the song, 

And dull and lifeless all around, 
For his wild harp lies all unstrung, 

And cold the hand that wak'd its sound. 

What tho'thy vigorous offspring rise, 

In arts and arms thy sons excel; 
Tho' beauty in thy daughters' eyes. 

And health in every feature dwell ; 
Yet who shall now their praises tell. 

In strains impassion'd, fond, and free, 
Since he no more the song shall swell 

To love, and liberty, and thee ! 

With step-dame eye and frown severe 

His hapless youth why didst thou view ? 
For all thy joys to him were dear, 

And all his vows to thee were due : 
Nor greater bliss his bosom knew, 

In opening youth's delightful prime. 
Than when thy favouring ear he drew 

To listen to his chanted rhyme. 

Thy lonely wastes and frowning skies 

To him were all with rapture fraught ; 
He heard with joy the tempests rise 

That wak'd him to sublimer thought ; 
And oft thy winding dells he sought. 

Where wild flowers pour'd their rath per- 
fume, 
And with sincere devotion brought 

To thee the summer's earliest bloom. 

48 



But, ah ! no fond maternal sujile 

His iniprotectod youth enjoy'd ; 
His limbs inured to early toil, 

His days with early hardships tried ; 
And more to mark the gloomy void, 

And bid him feel his misery, 
Before his infant eyes would glide 

Day-dreams of immortality. 

Yet, not by cold neglect depress'd, 

With sinewy arm he turn'd the soil, 
Sunk with the evening sun to rest, 

And met at morn his earliest smile. 
Wak'd by his rustic pipe, meanwhile 

The powers of fancy came along. 
And soothed his lengthen'd hour of toil 

With native wit and sprightly song. 

— Ah ! days of bliss, too swiftly fled, 

When vigorous health from labour springs, 
And bland contentment smooths the bed, 

And sleep his ready opiate brings ; 
And hovering round on airy wings 

Float the light forms of young desire, 
That of unutterable things 

The soft and shadowy hope inspire. 

Now spells of mightier power prepare. 

Bid brighter phantoms round him dance : 
Let flattery spread her viewless snare. 

And fame attract his vagrant glance : 
Let sprightly pleasure too advance, 

Unveil'd her eyes, unclasp'd her zone, 
Till lost in love's delirious trance 

He scorns the joys his youth has known. 

Let friendship pour her brightest blaze, 

Expanding all the bloom of soul; 
And mirth concentre all her rays, 

And point them from the sparkling^ 
bowl; 
And let the careless moments roll 

In social pleasures unconfln'd, 
And confidence that spurns control, 

Unlock the inmost springs of mind. 



IV 



ON THE DEATH OF BURNS. 



And lead his stops those bowers among, 

Where elegance with splendour vies, 
Or science bids her favour 'd throng 

To more refin'd sensations rise ; 
Beyond the peasant's humbler joys, 

And freed from each laborious strife, 
There let him learn the bliss to prize 

That waits the sons of polish'd life. 

Then whilst his throbbing veins beat high 

With every impulse of delight, 
Dash from his lips the cup of joy, 

And shroud the scene in shades of night ; 
And let despair, with wizard light, 

Disclose the yawning gulf below, 
And pour incessant on his sight. 

Her epectred ills and shapes of wo : 

And show beneath a cheerless shed, 

With sorrowing heart and streaming eyes, 

In silent grief where droops her head, 
The partner of his early joys ; 



And let his infant's tender cries 
His fond parental succour claim, 

And bid him hear in agonies 
A husband and a father's name. 

'Tis done — the powerful charm succeeds ; 

His high reluctant spirit bends ; 
In bitterness of soul he bleeds. 

Nor longer with his fate contends. 
An idiot laugh the welkin rends 

As genius thus degraded lies ; 
Till pitying Heaven the veil extends 

That shrouds the Poet's ardent eyes. 

— Rear high thy bleak, majestic hills, 

Thy shelter'd valleys proudly spread, 
And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills. 

And wave thy heaths with blossoms red ; 
But never more shall poet tread 

Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign, 
Since he the sweetest bard is dead 

That ever breath'd the soothing strain. 



9 



10 



11 
13 



Page 
On the Death of Burns, by Mr. Roscoe 
Preface to the First Edition of Burns's 

Poems, published at Kilmarnock 

Dedication of the Second EJitionof the 
Poems formerly printed, To the Gen- 
tlemen of the Caledonian Hunt 

POEMS, CHIEFLY SCOT PISH 

The Holy Fair.... •• 

The Twa Dogs, a Tale 

Scotch Drink 15 

The Author's Earnest Cry and Prayer 
to the Scotch Representatives in the 

House of Commons 16 

Postscript 18 

Death and Dr. Hornbook 19 

The Brigs of Ayr, a Poem inscribed to 

J. ^*^*^*^***^ Esq. Ayr 21 

The Ordination 23 

The Calf, to Mr. , 25 

The Death and Dying "Words of Poor 

Mailie ib. 

Poor Mailie's Elegy ib. 

Addresstothe Deil 27 

28 

38 

31 

32 



To J. S**** 

A Dream 

Winter, a Dirge 

The Vision — Duan first 

. —Duan second 33 

Address to the Unco Guid, or the Ri- 
gidly Righteous 35 

Tam Samson's Elegy. ib. 

The Epitaph 36 

Halloween 37 

To a Mouse 40 

The Jolly Beggars 41 

The Auld Farmer's New- Year's Morn- 
ing's Salutation to his Auld Mare 

Maggie.. 45 

A Winter Night 46 

Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet 47 

The Lament, occasioned by the unfor- 
tunate issue of a friend's amour 48 

To a Mountain Daisy, on turning one 
down with his plough, in April, 1766. 49 

Despondency, an Ode ib. 

The Cotter's Saturday Night 51 

To Miss L , with Beattie's Poems, as 

a New-Year's Gift, Jan. 1, 1787 53 

Epistle to a Young Friend , ib. 

Man was made to Mourn, a Dirge 55 

A Prayer in the Prospect of Death 66 

Stanzas on the same occasion ib. 

Verses left in a Room where he had slept ib. 

The First Psalm ib. 

A Prayer under the Pressure of Violent 

Anguish 57 

The First Six Verses of the Nineteenth 
Psalm ib. 



Page 
On a Scotch Bard, gone to the West In- 
dies 57 

Ode, sacred to the Memory of Mrs — 

of ; 58 

To Ruin ib. 

To a Haggis 59 

A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq.. ib. 
To a Louse, on seeing one on a Lady's 

Bonnet at Church 60 

Address to Edinburgh 61 

Epistle to J. Lapraik, a Scottish Bard., ib. 

To the Same 63 

To W. S*****n, Ochiltree ib. 

Postscript 64 

Epistle to J. R., enclosing some Poems. 65 
Written in Friars-Carse Hermitage, on 

Nith-side 66 

Elegy on Captain Henderson ib. 

The Epitaph 67 

Lament of Mary Queen of Scots ib. 

To Robert Graham, Esq. of Fintra .... 68 
Lament for James Earl of Glencairn... 09 
Address to the Shade of Thomson, on 
crowning his Bust at Ednam, Rox- 
burghshire, with bays 70 

On seeing a Wounded Hare limp by me. ib. 

Tam o' Shanter, a Tale 71 

On the late Captain Grose's peregrina- 
tions through Scotland, collecting the 

Antiquities of that Kingdom 73 

To Miss Cruikshanks, a very young lady ib. 
On reading in the Newspaper the Death 

JohnM'Cleod, Esq 74 

The Humble Petition of Bruar Water to 

the Noble Duke of Athole ib. 

On scaring some Water-Fowl in Loch- 
Turin 75 

Written with a pencil over the chimney 
piece, in the parlour of the inn at 

Kenmore, Tay mouth ib. 

Written with a pencil standing by the 

fall of Fyers, near Loch-Ness ib. 

On the Birth of a Posthumous Child 70 

Second Epistle to Davie, a brother Poet ib. 

The Inventory ib. 

Fragment inscribed to the Right Ho- 
nourable C. J. Fox 77 

To Dr. Blacklock ib. 

Address to the Tooth-ache 79 

The Whistle, a Ballad ib. 

Elegy on the late Miss Burnet, of Mon- 

boddo ;. 80 

Prologue, spoken at the Theatre, Ellis- 
land, on New-Year's Evening. . ..... 81 

Poem written to a Gentleman who had 
sent him a Newspaper, and offered to 

continue it free of expense ib. 

Lines on an Interview with Lord Daer. 82 
Epistle to R. Graham, Esq ib.^ 



VI 



CONTENTS. 



Pack 

The Rights of Woman 83 

Address, spoken by Miss Fontenelle, at 

the Theatre, Dumfries.... 84 

Verses to a Young Lady, with Songs., ib. 

Poem on Pastoral Poetry ib. 

Lines written on a blank leaf of a copy 

of his Poems presented to a Lady.... 85 
Copy of a Poetical Address, to Mr. Wil- 
liam Tytler ib. 

Sketch, New-Year's Day ib. 

Extempore on the late Mr. W. SmoUie. 8^ 
Poetical Inscription for an Altar to In- 
dependence ib. 

Sonnet on the Death of R. Riddel, Esq. ib. 
Monody on a lady famed for her caprice, ib. 

The Epitaph ^ 87 

Impromptu on Mrs. 's Birth-day. ib. 

To Miss Jessy L , Dumfries ib. 

Sonnet, on the Author's Birth-day .... ib. 

Extempore, to Mr. S'^'e ib. 

Poem addressed lo Mr Mitchell, Collec- 
tor of Excise, in Dumfries ib. 

Postscript 88 

Lines sent to a Gentleman whom he had 

offended ib. 

Poem on Life ib. 

To Robert Graham, Esq. of Fintrj". ... ib. 

Epitaph on a Friend ib. 

A Grace before dinner ib. 

A Verse " When Death's dark stream I 

ferry o'er" 89 

Inscription to the Memory of Fergusson ib. 

Verses written at Selkirk ib. 

The Guid Wife of Wauchope House, to 

Robert Barns ib. 

Answer to the above 90 

To J. Lapraik ib. 

To Rev. John M'Matth, inclosing a co- 
py of Holy Willie's Prayer 91 

To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. Mauchline.. 92 
To Mr. M'Adam, of Craigen-gillan.... ib. 
To Captam Riddel, of Glenriddel ..... 93 

To Terraughty on his birih-day ib. 

To a lady with a present of a pair of 

drinking glasses ib. 

The Vowels, a Tale ib. 

Sketch 94 

Scots Prologue, spoken at Dumfries. . . . ib. 

Extemporaneous Effusion on being ap- 
pointed to the Excise .......... ib. 

On seeing the beautiful seat of Lord G. ib. 

On the same ••. 95 

To the same, on being threatened with 

his resentment ib. 

Verses to J. Ranken ib. 

On hearing that there was falsehood in 

the Rev. Dr. B 's very looks..... ib. 

On a Schoolmaster in Cleish Parish, 

Fifeshire ib. 

Elegy on the Year 1788 ib. 

Verses written at a time when the Poet 

was about to leave Scotland ib. 

Verses written under the Portrait of 

Fergusson the Poet 96 

Delia, an Ode f ib. 

On the Death of Sir Jas. Hunter Blair. . ib. 



i Page 

i Lines written on the blank leaf of a co- 
; py of the Poems, presented to an old 

j sweetlieart then married 97 

! The Kirk's Alarm, a Satire ib. 

I The Twa Herds 98 

I Holy Willie's Prayer .' 99 

Epitaph on Holy Willie ib, 

The Henpecked Husband 100 

Epitaph on a Henpecked country squire ib. 

Epigram on said occasion ib. 

Another ib. 

Address to an Illegitimate Child ib. 

Verses written on a window of the Inn 
at Carron ib. 

Lines written by Burns on his death-bed ib. 

Verses addressed to J. Rankin 101 

Epigram ib. 

Burns's Extempore — to the Dumfries 
Volunteers ib. 

Lines ib. 

On Miss Jane Scott, of Ayr ib. 

Epistle from a Tailor to Robert Burns, ib. 

Answer to the Same 101^ 

Elegy on the Death of Robt. Ruisscaux. ib. 

Liberty, a Frajjment ib. 

Letter to John Goudie, Kilmarnock... 103 

Letter to J. J. S. S 1 Gl nc r ib. 

On the death of a Lap-dog, named Echo 104 

On Sensibility ib. 

Caledonia * ib . 

The Dean of Faculty ib. 

Extempore in the Court of Session 105 

Lines written on a Window at the King's 

Arms, Dumfries , ib. 

Extempore Lines , ib. 

Lines to Mrs Kemble ib. 

Lines written Extempore in a Lady's 

Pocket-book ib. 

Lines written on the Window of the 

Globe Tavern, Dumfries ib. 

Lines written under the Picture of the 

celebrated Miss Burns 106 

Epigram on Captain Francis Grose 156 

Epigram on Elpliinstone's Translation 

of Marshall's Epigrams ib. 

Epitaphs ib. 

On a celebrated Ruling Elder ib. 

On a Noisy Polemic ib. 

On Wee Johnny ' ib. 

For the Author's Father ib. 

For R. A. Esq ib. 

A Bard's Epitaph ib. 

Epitaph on a Wag in Mauchline ib 

Epitaph on J n B y Writer in 

Dumfries ib. 

Epitaph on J. Dove, innkeeper,Mauchline ib. 
Epitaph on Walter S ib. 



Epitaph on a person nicknamed the Mar- 
quis, who desired Burns to write one. 



ib. 



SONGS. 

Adieu! a heart- warm, fond adieu!...... 140 

Adown winding Nith did I wander 133 

Ae fond kiss and then we sever 131 



fOIN TENTS. 



Vll 



Page 

Again rejoicinfr nature sees 1H8 

A Highland lad my love was born 42 

Allho' my bed were iu yon muir 153 

Amang the trees where humming bees. 151 

An O, for ane and twenty, Tarn ! 123 

Ance mair 1 hail thee, thou gloomy De- 
cember ! 126 

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire 156 

A rose-bud by my early walk 12i ' 

As I stood by yon roofless tower 127 

As I was a-wandering ae morning in 

spring 155 

Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's 
alarms J17 

Behind yon hills where Lugar flows . . . 138 

Behold the hour, the boat arrive 126 

Blithe, blithe and merry was she 118 

Blithe hae I been on yon hill 132 

Bonnie lassie will ye go 117 

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing.... 123 

But lately seen in gladsome green 113 

By Allan stream 1 chanced to rove 110 

By yon castle wa', at the close of the day 149 

Ca' the yowes to the knowes 112 

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? . . 135 

Clarinda, mistress of my soul 143 

Come, let me take thee to my breast., 133 
Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair. 114 
Could aught of song declare my pains.. 154 

Deluded swain, the pleasure 1 10 

Does hauofhty Gaul invasion threat ? . . . 144 
Duncan Gray came here to woo 107 

Fairest maid on Devon banks 117 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green 

earth, and ye skies 106 

Farewell tnou stream that winding flows 113 
Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong 146 
Fate gave the word, the arrow sped.... 152 

First when Maggie was my care. . .... 146 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy 

green braes « . 125 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near.... . 116 
From thee, Eliza, I must go 140 

Gane is the day, and mirk's the night.. 123 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine 129 

Green grows the rashes, O! 138 

Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore 110 
Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie 108 

Here's a bottle and an honest friend 146 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear 117 

Here's a health to them that's awa 117 

Here is the glen, and here the bower. . Ill 

Her flowing locks, the raven's wing 155 

How can my poor heart be glad Ill 

How cruel are the parents . 142 

How lang and dreary is the night 112 

How pleasant the banks of the clear- 
winding Devon 132 

Husband, husband, cease your strife 111 

I am a bard of no regard 43 

I am a fiddler to ray trade 42 



Page 

I am a son of Mars 41 

I do confess thou art so fair 13G 

I dream'd I lay where flowers were 

springing 129 

I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen 121 

I hae a wife o' my ain lOS 

I'll ay ca' in by yon town 145 

I'll kiss thee yet, yet 147 

In simmer when the hay was mawn .... 124 
In Mauchline there dwells six proper 

young belles ... - 155 

I once was a maid tho' I cannot tell when 4 1 

Is there for honest poverty 142 

It was upon a Lammas night 137 

It was the champing month of May .... 134 

Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss ^ 128 

John Anderson my jo, Jonn 121 

Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose?.... .. 145 

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks 11 

Last May a braw wooer cam down the 

lang glen 116 

Let me ryke up to dight that tear 42 

Let not woman e'er complain 134 

Long, long the night 135 

Loud blaw the frosty breezes 118 

Louis, what reck I by thee 126 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion.... 115' 

Musing on the roaring ocean 118 

My bonny lass, I work in brass 43 

My Chloris,mark how green the groves 134 
My father was a farmer upon the Car- 
rick bordor, 152 

My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittle... , 122 
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart 

is not here 130 

My heart is sair, I dare na tell 126 

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form 128 

Nae Gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair .. . 128 
No churchman am I for to rail and to 

write 141 

Now bank and brae are claith'd in green 131 
Now in her green mantle blithe nature 

arrays 114 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers .... 142 
Now spring has cloth'd the groves in 

green 143 

Now weslin winds and slaughtering guns 137 

O bonny was yon rosy brier ........ 116 

O cam ye here the fight to shun 143 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw 120 

O gin ray love were yon red rose 133 

O how can 1 be blithe and glad 131 

Oh, open the door, some pity to show.. 108 

Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast. 128 

O ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has got- 
ten 108 

O lassie, art thou sleepin yet ? • 114 

O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles .... 154 

O leeze me on my spinning wheel 123 

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide 109 

O luve will venture in, where it daur na 

weel be seen 124 



Vlll 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

O Mary, at thy window be 150 

O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet.. 127 

O meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty. 122 

O mirk, mirk is the midnight hour 108 

O my luve's like a red, red rose 127 

On a bank of flowers one summer's day 153 

On Cessnock banks there lives a lass . . . 147 

One night as 1 did wander 155 

O, once I lov'd a bonnie lass 145 

O Philly , happy be that day . ■ 135 

O poortith cauld, and restless love 107 

O raging fortune's withering blast. . . . 153 

O saw ye bonnie Lesley 150 

O saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 134 

O stay, sweet warbling woo^-lark, stay . . 115 

O tellna me o' wind and rain 114 

O, this is no my ain lassie 116 

O Tibbie, I hae seen the day 119 

Out over the Forth I look to the North. . 131 

O, wat ye wha's in yon town 127 

O, were I on Parnassus' hill ! 122 

O wha is she that lo'es me ? 144 

O wha my babie-clouts will buy ? 130 

O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad . . 110 

O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut 121 

Powers celestial, whose protection 148 

Raving winds around her blowing 118 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets 112 

Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure ... 152 

Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled 142 

See the smoking bowl before us 44 

She's fair and fause that causes my smart 126 

She is a winsome wee thing 106 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot 141 

Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou 42 

Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest 

creature 113 

Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires 153 
Stay my charmer, can you leave me ? . . 118 

Streams that glide in orient plains 132 

Sweet fa's the eve on Cragie-burn 114 

Sweetest May let love inspire thee 155 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen.. 121 

The day returns, my bosom burns 119 

The deil cam fiddling thro' the town .... 132 
The gloomy night is gath'ring fast.... 139 
The heather was blooming, the meadows 

were mawn 148 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of 

thehill 119 

The lovely lass o' Inverness 126 

The small birds rejoice in the green 

leaves returning 156 



Page 
The smiling spring conies in rejoicing. 126 
The Thames flows proudly to the sea . . 122 
The winter it is past, and the simmer 

comes at last 155 

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign 

lands reckon 115 

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in 

yon glen 107 

There's a youth in this city, it were a 

great pity 129 

There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow 

braes 107 

There was a bonnie lass, and a bonnie, 

bonnie lass 109 

There was a lad was born at Kyle ..... 149 

There was a lass and she was fair 1 09 

There was three kings into the east. . . . 1 35 
Thickest night o'erhang my dwelling.. 118 

Thine am I . my faithful fair 110 

Tho' cruel fate should bid us part 131 

Tho women's minds like winter winds.. 154 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie 133 

Thou lingering star, with less 'ning ray. 154 
To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains. 155 
True hearted was he, the sad swain of 

Yarrow 108 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza 124 

'Twas even, the dewy fields were green. 106 
'Twas na her bonny blue e'e was my ruin 115 

Up in the morning's no for me 1 29 

Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my e'e. 148 

Wha is this at my bower door? 130 

What can a young lassie, what shall a 

young lassie ... 123 

When first I came to Stewart Kyle.... 153 
When Guilford good our pilot stood .... 139 
When Ivart leaves bestrew the yird .... 41 

When ever the hill the eastern star Ill 

When wild war's deadly blast was blawn 151 
Where are the joys I hae met in the 

morning 134 

Where braving angry winter's storms . . 119 

Where Cart rins rowin to the sea 144 

While larks, with little wing 109 

Why, why tell thy lover 1 43 

Will ye goto the Indies, my Mary 149 

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed 125 

Wilt thou be my dearie ? Ill 

Ye banks and braes and streams around. 147 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon 125 

Ye gallants bright I red you right 129 

Yestreen I had a pint o' wine 132 

Yon wild mossy mountains. 130 

Young Jockey was the blithest lad. .... 145 
Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass. 149 



PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION 



OF 



m^m^^^^ s^^m 



PUBLISHED AT KILMARNOCK IN 1186. 



The following trifles are not the production 
of the poet, who, with all the advantages of 
learned art, and, perhaps amid the elegancies 
and idlenesses of upper life, looks down for a 
rural theme, with an eye to Theocritus or 
Virgil. To the author of this, these and 
other celebrated names, their countrymen, 
are, at least in their original language, a 
fountain shut up, and a book sealed. Un- 
acquainted with the necessary requisites for 
commencing poet by rule, he sings the senti- 
ments and manners he felt and saw in himself 
and his rustic compeers around him, in his 
and their native language. Though a rhy- 
mer from his earliest years, at least from the 
earliest impulses of the softer passions, it was 
not till very lately that the applause, perhaps 
the partiality, of friendship, wakened his 
vanity so far as to make him think any 
thing of his worth showing ; and none of 
the following works were composed with a 
view to the press. To amuse himself with 
the little creations of his own fancy, amid 
the toil and fatigues of a laborious life ; to 
transcribe the various feelings, the loves, 
the griefs, the hopes, the fears, in his own 
breast ; to find some kind of counterpoise to 
the struggles of a world, always an alien 
scene, a task uncouth to the poetical mind — 
these were his motives for courting the Mu- 
ses, and in these he found poetry to be its 
own reward. 

Now, that he appears in the public charac- 
ter of an author, he does it with fear and 
trembling. So dear is fame to the rhyming 
tribe, that even he, an obscure, nameless 
Bard, shrinks aghast at the thought of be- 
ing branded as — An impertinent blockhead, 
obtruding his nonsense on the world ; and, 
because he can make a shift to jingle a 
few doggerel Scotch rhymes together, look- 

2 



ing upon himself as a poet of no small con- 
sequence, forsooth ! 

It is an observation of that celebrated poet, 
Shenstone, whose divine elegies do honour 
to our language, our nation, and our species, 
that " Humility has depressed many a genius 
to a hermit, but never raised one to K.me !" 
If any critic catches at the word genius, the 
author tells him once for all, that he certain- 
ly looks upon himself as possessed of some 
poetic abilities, otherwise his publishing in 
the manner he has done, would be a manoeu- 
vre below the worst character, which, he 
hopes, his worst enemy will ever give him. 
But to the genius of a Ramsay, or the glorious 
dawningsof the poor unfortunate Fergusson, 
he, with equal unaffected sinceritv, declares, 
that, even in his highest pulse of vanity, he 
has not the most distant pretensions. These 
two justly admired Scotch poets he has often 
had in his eye in the following pieces ; but 
rather with a view to kindle at their flame, 
than for servile imitation. 

To his Subscribers, the author returns his 
most sincere thanks. Not the mercenary 
bow over a counter, but the heart-throbbing 
gratitude of the bard, conscious how much 
he owes to benevolence and friendship, for 
gratifying him, if he deserves it, in that dear- 
est wish of every poetic bosom — to be dis- 
tinguished. He begs his readers, particularly 
the learned and the polite, who may honour 
him with a perusal, that they will make every 
allowance for education and circumstances 
of life : but if, after a fair, candid, and im- 
partial criticism, he shall stand convicted of 
dulness and nonsense, let him be done by as 
he would in that case do with others — let 
him be condemned, without mercy, to con* 
tempt and oblivion. 



e)®S)^^^®<^©^ 



OF THE 



SECOND EDITION OF THE 



POEMS FORMERLY PRINTED. 



TO THE 



irOBIiEMZiK AVrJ} aSITTZiEMESl' 



or THE 



calebo;n'ia;^ hujs*2\ 



My Lords and Gentlemen, 

A Scottish bard, proud of the name, and 
whose highest ambition is to sing in his 
covmtry's service — where shall he so properly 
look for patronage as to the illustrious names 
of his native land ; those who bear the 
honours and inherit the virtues of their an- 
cestors ? The poetic Genius of my country 
found me, as the prophetic bard Elijah did 
Elisha — at the plough ; and threw her in- 
spiring mantle over me. She bade me sing 
the loves, the joys, the rural scenes and 
rural pleasures of my native soil, in my 
native tongue : I tuned my wild, artless 
notes, as she inspired — she whispered me to 
come to this ancient Metropolis of Caledo- 
nia, and lay my songs under your honoured 
protection ; I now obey her dictates. 

Though much indebted to your goodness, 
I do not approach you, my Lords and Gen- 
tlemen, in the usual style of dedication, to 
thank you for past favors ; that path is so 
hackneyed by prostituted learning, that 
honest rusticity is ashamed of it. Nor do I 
present this address with the venal soul of a 
servile author, looking for a continuation of 
those favours ; I was bred to the plough, and 
am independent. I come to claim the com- 
mon Scottish name with you, my illustrious 
countrymen ; and to tell the world that I 
glory in the title. I come to congratulate 



my country, that the blood of her ancient 
heroes still runs uncontaminated ; and that 
from your courage, knowledge, and public 
spirit, she may expect protection, wealth, 
and liberty. In the last place, I come to 
proflEer my warmest wishes to the Great 
Fountain of Honour, the Monarch of the 
Universe, for your welfare and happiness. 

When you go forth to waken the Echoes, 
in the ancient and favourite amusement of 
your forefathers, may Pleasure ever be of 
your party ; and may social joy await your 
return : when harassed in courts or camps 
with the jostlings of bad men and bad mea- 
sures, may the honest consciousness of in- 
jured worth attend your return to your 
native seats ; and may Domestic Happiness 
with a smiling welcome, meet you at your 
gates ! May corruption shrink at your kind- 
ling indignant glance ; and may tyranny in 
the ruler, and licentiousness in the people, 
equally find you an inexorable foe ! 

I have the honour to be, 

With the sincerest gratitude, 
and highest respect, 
My Lords and Gentlemen, 
Your most devoted humble servant, 



ROBERT BURNS. 



Edinburgh, 
April 4, 1787. 




rp^@®^® 



D 



CHIi:FZi3r SCOTTISH. 



THE HOLY FAIR.* 



A robe of seeming truth and trust 

Hid crafty Observation ; 
And secret hung, with poison'd crust, 

The dirk of Defamation : 
A mask that like the gorget show'd, 

Dye-varying on the pigeon ; 
And for a mantle large and broad, 

He wrapt him in Religion. 

Hypocrisy a-la-mode. 



Upon a simmer Sunday morn, . 

When nature's face is fair, 
I walked forth to view the corn, 

An' snufFthe caller air. 
The rising sun owre Galston muirs, 

Wi' glorious light was glintin' ; 
The hares were hirplin down the furs, 

The lav'rocks they were chantin' 

Fu' sweet that day. 

As Ughtsomely I glowr'd abroad, 

To see a scene sae gay, 
Three Hizzies, early at the road, 

Cam skelpin up the way, 
Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black, 

But ane wi' lyart lining; 
The third, that gaed a-wee a-back, 

Was in the fashion shining, 

Fu' gay that day. 

* Holy Fair is a common phrase in the West 
of Scotland for a Sacramental occasion. 



The twa appear 'd like sisters twin, 

In feature, form, an' claes ! 
Their visage wither'd, lang, an' thin, 

An' sour as ony slaes : 
The third cam up, hap-step-an'-lowp, 

As light as ony lambie, 
An' wi' a curchie low did stoop. 

As soon as e'er she saw me, 

Fu' kind that day. 

Wi' bonnet afF, quoth I, ' Sweet lass, 

1 think ye seem to ken me ; 
I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face, 

But yet I canna name ye'. 
Quo' she, an' laughin' as she spak, 

An' taks me by the hands. 
Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck 

O' a' the ten commands 

A screed some day. 

' My name is Fun — your cronie dear, 

The nearest friend ye hae ; 
An' this is Svperstiiion here. 

An' that's Hypocrisy. 
I'm gaun to********* Holy Fair, 

To spend an hour in daffin' : 
Gin ye '11 go there, yon runkl'd pair, 

We will get famous laughin' 

At them this day.' 

Quoth I, ' With a' my heart, I'll do't ; 

I'll get my Sunday's sark on, 
An' meet you on the holy spot ; 

Faith we'se hae fine remarking !' 
Then I gaed hame at crov^rdie-time, 

An' soon I made me ready ; 



12 



BURNS S POEMS. 



For roads were clad, frae side to side, 
Wi' monie a wearie bodie, 

In droves that day. 

Here farmers gash, in ridin' graith 

Gaed hoddin by the cotters ; 
There, swankies young, in braw braid-claith, 

Are springin o'er the gutters. 
The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang, 

In silks an' scarlets glitter ; 
Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in monie a whang, 

An' farls bak'd wi' butter 

Fu' crump that day. 

When by the plate we set our nose, 

Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, 
A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws, 

An' we maun draw our tippence. 
Then in we go to see the show. 

On ev'ry side they're gatherin'. 
Some carrying dales, some chairs an' stools, 

An' some are busy blethering 

Right loud that day. 

Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, 

An' screen our countra Gentry, 
There, racer Jess, an' twa-three wh-res, 

Are blinkin at the entry. 
Here sits a raw of tittling jades, 

Wi' heaving breast and bare neck. 
And there a batch of wabster lads. 

Blackguarding frae K ck. 

For fun this day. 

Here some are thinkin on their sins, 

An' some upon their claes ; 
Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins, 

Anither sighs an' prays : 
On this hand sits a chosen swatch, 

Wi' screw'd up grace-proud faces ; 
On that a set o'chaps at watch, 

Thrang winkin' on the lasses 

To chairs that day. 

O happy is that man an' blest I 

Nae wonder that it pride him ! 
Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best, 

Comes clinkin down beside him! 
Wi' arm repos'd on the chair back, 

He sweetly does compose him ! 
Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, 

An's loof upon her bosom, 

Unken'd that day. 

Noiv a' the congregation o'er 

Is silent expectation^ 
For ♦*♦***» speels the holy door, 

Wi' tidings o' d-mn-t — n. 
Should Hornie, as in ancient days, 

'Mang sons o' G — present him, 
The vera sight o* * * * * 's face, 

To's ain net harae had sent him 

Wi' fright that day. 

Hear how he clears the points o'faith 
^ Wi' rattlin' an' wi' thumpin' ! 
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, 
He's starapin' an he's jurapin' ! 



His lengthen 'd chin, his turn'd-up snout, 
His eldritch squeel and gestures, 

Oh how ihey fire the heart devout, 
Like cantharidian plasters. 

On sic a day ! 

But, hark ! the tent has chang'd its voice ; 

There's peace an' rest nae langer : 
For a' the real judges rise. 

They canna sit for anger. 
***** opens out his cold harangues, 

On practice an' on morals ; 
An' aff the godly pour in thrangs, 

To gie the jars an' barrels 

A lift that day. 

What signifies his barren shine 

O' moral pow'rs and reason ? 
His English style, an' gesture fine, 

Are a' clean out o' season. 
Like Socrates or Antonine, 

Or some auld pagan Heathen, 
The moral man he does define. 

But ne'er a word o' faith in 

That's right that day. 

In guid time comes an antidote 

Against sic poison'd nostrum: 
For * * « * * *j fra the water-fit. 

Ascends the holy rostrum : 
See, up he's got the word o' G — , 

An' meek an' mini has view'd it. 
While Common-Sense has ta'en the road, 

An' aff, an' up the Cowgate,"* 

Fu', fast, that day. 

Wee ***♦*, neist, the Guard relieves, 

An' Orthodoxy raibles, 
Tho' in his heart he weel believes. 

An' thinks it auld wives' fables : 
But, faith ! the birkie wants a manse. 

So, cannily he hums them; 
Altho' his carnal wit an' sense 

Like hafilin's-ways o'ercomes him 

At times that day. 

Now butt an' ben, the Change-house fills, 

Wi' yill-cup Commentators : 
Here's crying out for bakes and gills. 

An' there the pint-stowp clatters ; 
While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang, 

Wi' Logic, an' wi' Scripture, 
They raise a din, that in the end 

Is like to breed a rupture 

O' wrath that day. 

Leeze me on Drink ! it gies us mair 

Than either School or College : 
It kindles wit, it waukens lair. 

It bangs us fu' o' knowledge. 
Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep, 

Or ony stronger potion. 
It never fails, on drinking deep, 

To kittle up our notion 

By night or day. 

* A street so called, in which feces the tent. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



13 



The lads an' lasses, bly thly bent 

To mind baith saul an' body, 
Sit round the table weel content, 

An' steer about the toddy. 
On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk, 

They're making observations ; 
While some are cozie i' the neuk, 

An' formin assignations 

To meet some day. 

But now the L — d's ain trumpet touts, 

Till a' the hills are rairin'. 
An' echoes back return the shouts 

Black ***** is na spairin' : 
His piercing words, like Highland swords, 

Divide the joints an' marrow ; 
His talk o' H — , where devils dwell, 

Our vera sauls does harrow.* 

Wi' freight that day. 

A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit, 

Fill'd fou o' lowin brunstane ! 
Wha's raging flame, an' scorchin heat, 

Would melt the hardest whunstane ! 
The half asleep start up wi' fear, 

An' think they hear it roarin. 
When presently it does appear, 

'Twas but some neebor snorin' 

Asleep that day. 

'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell 

How monie stories past. 
An' how they crowded to the yill, 

When they were a' dismist : 
How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, 

Amang the furms and benches ; 
An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, 

Was dealt about in lunches. 

An' dawds that day. 

In comes a gaucie, gash Guidwife, 

An' sits down by the fire. 
Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife, 

The lasses they are shyer. 
The auld Guidmen, about the grace, 

Frae side to side they bother, 
Till some ane by his bonnet lays, 

An' gi'es them't like a tether, 

Fu' lang that day. 

Waesucks ! for him that gets nae lass, 

Or lasses that hae naething ! 
Sma' need has he to say a grace. 

Or melvie his braw claithing ! 
O wives, be mindfu', ance yoursel 

How bonnie lads ye wanted. 
An' dinna, for a kebbuck-heel. 

Let lasses be affronted 

On sic a day ! 

Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin tow, 

Begins to jow an' croon ; 
Some swagger hame, the best they dow. 

Some wait the afternoon. 
At slaps the billies halt a blink, 

Till lasses strip their shoon : 

* Shakspeare's Hamlet. 



Wi' faith and hope, an' love an' drink, 
Theyr'e a' in famous tune 

For crack that day. 

How monie hearts this day converts, 

O' sinners and o' lasses ! 
Their hearts o'stane, gin night, are gane 

As saft as ony flesh is. 
There's some are fou o' love divine, 

There's some are fou o' brandy j 
An' monie jobs that day began. 

May end in Houghmagandie 

Some ither day. 

— @@©— 
THE TWA DOGS. 

A TALE. 

'TwAS in that place o' Scotland's isle, 
That bears the name o' ^uld King Coil, 
Upon a bonnie day in June, 
When wearing thro' the afternoon 
Twa dogs that werena' thrang at hame, 
Forgather 'd ance upon a time. 

The first I'll name, they ca'd him Casar, 
Was keepit for his honour's pleasure : 
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, 
Shew'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs ; 
But whalpit some place far abroad. 
Where sailors gang to fish for Cod. 

His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar, 
Shew'd him the gentleman and scholar ; 
But though he was o' high degree, 
The fient a pride nae pride had he ; 
But wad hae spent an hour caressin, 
Ev'n wi' a tinkler-gypsey's messin. 
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie 
Nae tauted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie, 
But he wad stand, as glad to see him, 
And stroant on stanes an' hillocks wi' him. 

The tither was a ploughman's collie, 
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, 
Wha for his friend an' comrade had him, 
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, 
After some dog in Highland sang* 
Was made lang syne — Lord knows how lang. 

He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke, 
As ever lap a she ugh or dyke. 
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face. 
Aye gat him friends in ilka place. 
His breast was white, his towzie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
His gawcie tail wi' upward curl. 
Hung o'er his hurdles wi' a swirl. 

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, 
An' unco pack an' thick thegither ; 
Wi' social nose whyles snufrd and snowkit } 
Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit ; 
Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion, 
An' worri'd ither in diversion; 
Until wi' daffin weary grown, 
Upon a knowe they sat them down. 
And there began a lang digression 
About the lords o' the Creation. 

* Cuchuilin's dog in Ossian's Fingal. 



14 



BURNS S POEMS. 



CJESAR. 

I've often wonder'd, honest Luath, 
What sort o' life poor dogs like you have ; 
An' when the gentry's life I saw, 
What way poor bodies liv'd ava'. 

Our Laird gets in his racked rents, 
His coals, his kain, and a' his stents : 
He rises when he likes himsel' ; 
His flunkies answer at the bell : 
He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse ; 
He draws a bonnie silken purse 
As lang's my tail whare, thro' the steeks, 
The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks. 

Frae morn to e'en its nought but toiling, 
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ; 
And tho' the gentry first are stechin', 
Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan 
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, 
That's little short o* downright wastrie. 
Our Whipper-in, wee blastit wonner, 
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner 
Better than ony tenant man 
His honour has in a' the Ian' : 
An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, 
I own it's past my comprehension. 

LUATH. 

Trowth, Caesar, whyles they're fash't 
eneugh ; 
A cottar howkin in a sheugh, 
Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke, 
Baring a quarry, and sic like, 
Himsel, a wife, he thus sustains, 
A smytrie o' wee duddy weans. 
An' nought but his han' darg, to keep 
Them right and tight in thack an' rape. 

An' when they meet wi' sair disasters, 
Like loss o' health, or. want o' masters, 
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer, 
An' they maun starve o' cauld and hunger ; 
But, how it comes, I never kenn'd it. 
They're maistly wonderfu' contented ; 
An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies, 
Are bred in sic a way as this is. 

C^SAR. 

But then to see how ye 're negleckit. 
How hufTd, and cufTd, and disrespeckit ! 
L — d, man, our gentry care as little 
For delvers, ditchers, and sic cattle ; 
They gang as saucy by poor fo'k. 
As I wad by a stinking brock. 

I've notic'd on our Laird's court-day, 
An' mony a time my heart's been wae. 
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash, 
How they maun thole a factor's snash : 
He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear, 
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; 
While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble. 
An' hear it a', an' fear and tremble ! 
I see how folk live that hae riches : 
But surely poor folk maun be wretches 1 

LUATH. 

They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think: 
Tho' constantly on poortith's brink : 



They're sae accuslom'd wi' the sight, 
The view o't gies them little fright. 

Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, 
They're ay in less or mair provided ; 
An' tho' fatigu'd wi' close employment, 
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjovment. 

The dearest comfort o' their lives, 
Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives : 
The prattling things are just their pride, 
That sweetens a' their fire-side. 
An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy 
Can mak the bodies unco happy ; 
They lay aside their private cares. 
To mind the Kirk and State affairs : 
They'll talk o' patronage and priests, 
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts. 
Or tell what new taxation's comin, 
An' ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. 

As bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns, 
They get the jovial, ranting kirns, 
When rural life, o' every station, 
Unite in common recreatioji ; 
Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth 
Forgets there's care upo' the earth. 

That merry day tho year begins. 
They bar the door on frosty winds ; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, 
An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; 
The luntin pipe, and sneeshin mill. 
Are handed round wi' right guid will ; 
The cantie auld folks cracking crouse. 
The young anes rantin' through the house,— 
My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. 

Still it's owre true that ye hae said. 
Sic game is now owre aften play'd. 
There's monie a creditable stock 
O' decent, honest, fawsont fo'k, 
Are riven out baith root and branch, 
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 
Wha thinks to knit himsel' the faster 
In favour wi' some gentle Master, 
Wha, aiblins, thrang a parliamentin'. 
For Britain's guid his saul indentin' — 

C^SAR. 

Haith, lad, ye little ken about it ; 
For Britain's guid ! guid faith ! I doubt it. 
Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, 
An' saying aye or no's they bid him : 
At operas an' plays parading, 
Mortgaging, gambling, m.asquerading : 
Or may be, in a frolic daft 
To Hague or Calais takes a waft, 
To make a tour, an' tak a wliirl, 
To learn bon ton, an' see the worl'. 
There, at Vienna or Versailles, 
He rives his father's auld entails ; 
Or by Madrid he takes the route, 
To thrum guitars, and fecht wi' nowt; 
Or down Italian vista startles, 
Wh-re-hunting among groves o' myrtles : 
Then bouses drumly German water. 
To mak himsel look fair and fatter, 
An' clear the consequential sorrows, 
Love-gifts of Carnival signoras. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



15 



F<yr Britain'' s guid ! for her destruction ! 
Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction. 



LUATH. 

Hech, man ! dear sirs ! is that the gjate 
They waste sae mony a braw estate ! 
Are we sae foughten an' harass'd, 
For gear to gang that gate at last ? 

O would they stay aback frae courts, 
An' please themsels wi' countra sports, 
It wad for ev'ry ane be better. 
The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter '. 
For thae frank, rantin, ramblin' billies, 
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows ! 
Except for breakin o' their timmer. 
Or speaking lightly o' their limmer, 
Or shooting o' a hare or muir-cock. 
The ne'er a bit they're ill to puir folk. 

But will ye tell me, Master Cmsar, 
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure ! 
Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer thera, 
The vera thought o't needna' fear them. 

C^SAR. 

L— d, man, were ye but whyles whare I am. 
The gentry ye wad ne'er envy them. 

It's true, they needna starve or sweat, 
Thro' winter's cauld, or simmer's heat ; 
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, 
An' fill auld age wi' gripes an' granes : 
But human bodies are sic fools, 
For a' their colleges and schools. 
That when nae real ills perplex them, 
They mak enow themselves to vex them ; 
An' ay the less they hae to sturt them. 
In like proportion less will hurt them. 
A country fellow at the pleugh, 
His acre 's till'd he's right eneugh ; 
A country girl at her wheel. 
Her dizzen 's done, she 's unco weel : 
But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, 
Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curst. 
They loiter, lounging, lank an' lazy ; 
Tho deil haet ails them, yet uneasy : 
Their days insipid, dull an' tasteless ; 
Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless : 
An' e'en their sports, their balls an' races, 
Their galloping thro' public places. 
There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, 
That joy can scarcely reach the heart. 
The men cast out in party matches. 
Then sowther a' in deep debauches ; 
Ae night they're mad wi' drink an' wh-ring, 
Niest day their life is past enduring. 
The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, 
As great and gracious a' as sisters ; 
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither. 
They're a' run deils and jads thegither. 
Whyles, o'er the wee bit cup an' platie, 
They sip the scandal potion pretty ; 
Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks. 
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ; 
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, 
An' cheat like ony unhang 'd blackguard. 

There's some exception, man an' woman > 
But this is Gentry's life in common. 



By this, the sun was out o' sight. 
An' darker gloaming brought the night : 
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone j 
The kye stood routin i' the loan ; 
When up they gat, and shook their lugs, 
Rejoic'd they werena men but dogs ; 
An' each took aff his several way, 
Resolved to meet some ither day. 



SCOTCH DRINK. 



Gie him strong drink, until he wink, 

That's sinking in despair; 
An' liquor guid to fire his bluid, 

That '9 prest wi' grief an' care ; 
There let him bouse, an' deep carouse, 

Wi' bumpers flowing o'er, 
Till he forgets his loves and debts^ 

An' minds his griefs no more. 

SolomorCs Proverbs, xxxi. 6. 7. 



Let other poets raise a fracas 

'Bout vines an' wines, an' drunken Sacchus^f 

An' crabbit names an' stories wrack us, 

An' grate our lug. 
I sing the juice Scots bear can mak us 

In glass or jug. 

O thou, my Muse ! guid auld Scotch Drinkf 
Whether thro' wimpling worms thou jink. 
Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink, 

In glorious faem. 
Inspire me, till I lisp and wink. 

To sing thy name 1 

Let husky Wheat the haughs adorn. 
An' Aits set up their awnie horn. 
An' Pease and Beans at e'en or morn 

Perfume the plain, 
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn^ 

Thou king o' grain ? 

On thee afl Scotland chows her cood. 
In souple scones, the wale o' food ! 
Or tumblin in the boiling flood 

Wi' kail an' beef; 
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood. 

There thou shines chief.^ 

Food fills the wame, and keeps us livin' ; 
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin'. 
When heavy dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin' > 

But, oil'd by tTiee, 
The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin', 

Wi' rattlin glee. 

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear : 
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care ; 
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair, 

At's weary toil ; 
Thou even brightens dark Despair 

Wi' gloomy smile.. 

Aft, clad in massy silver weed, 
Wi' Gentles thou erects thy head 3 



16 



BURNS S POEMS. 



Yet humbly kind in time o' need, 

The poor man's wine, 

His wee drap parritch, or his bread. 

Thou kitchens fine. 

Thou art the life o' public haunts ; 

But thee, what were our fairs and rants ? 

Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts, 

By thee inspir'd, 
When gaping they besiege the tents, 

Are doubly fir'd. 

That merry night we get the corn in, 
O sweetly then thou reams the horn in ! 
Or reekin' on a New-year mornin' 

In cog or bicker. 
An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burnin', 

An' gusty sucker ! 

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, 
An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith, 
O rare ! to see the fizz an fraeth 

I' th' lugget caup ! 
Then Burnewin* comes on like death 

At ev'ry chaup. 

Nae mercy, then, for aim or steel ; 
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel. 
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel, 

The strong forehammer. 
Till block an' studdie ring an' reel 

Wi' dinsome clamour. 

When skirlin weanies see the light, 
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright. 
How fumblin cuifs their dearies slight ; 

Wae worth the name ! 
Nae howdie gets a social night. 

Or plack frae them. 

When neebors anger at a plea. 
An' just as wud as wud can be. 
How easy can the barley-bree 

Cement the quarrel ! 
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee, 

To taste the barrel. 

Alack ! that e'er my Muse has reason 
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason ! 
But monie daily weet their weason 

Wi' liquors nice. 
An' hardly, in a winter's season, 

E'er spier her price. 

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash ! 
Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash ! 
Twins monie a poor, doylt, drunken hash, 

O' half his days ; 
An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash 

To her warst faes. 

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland weel 
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, 
Poor plackless devils like mysel ! 

It sets you ill, 
Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell. 

Or foreign gill. 

* Burnewin — burn the wind — the Blacksmith 
— an appropriate title. — E. 



May gravels round his blather wrench, 
An' gouts torment him inch by inch, 
Wlia twists his gruntle wi' a glunch 

O' sour disdain, 
Out-owre a glass o' whisky punch 

Wi' honest men. 

O Whisky ! saul o' plays an pranks ! 
Accept a Bardie's humble thanks ! 
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks 

Are my poor verses ! 
Thou comes they rattle i' their ranks 

At ither's a — si 

Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost ! 
Scotland, lament frae coast to coast ! 
Now colic gripes, an barkin hoast. 

May kill us a' ; 
For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast 

Is ta'en awa ! 

Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise, 
Wha mak the Whisky Stells their prize ! 
Haud up thy han', Deil ! ance, twice, thrice? 

There seize the blinkers! 
An' bake them up in brunstane pies 

For poor d — n'd drinkers. 

Fortune, if thou'll but gie me still 
Hale breeks, a scone, an' Whisky gill, 
An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, 

Tak a' the rest, 
An' deal't about as thy blind skill 

Directs thee best. 

THE author's 

EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER* 

to the 
scotch representatives in the house of 

COMMONS. 



Dearest of Distillation ! last and best — 

How art thou lost ! 

Parody on Milton. 



Ye Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires,, 
Wha represent our burghs an' shires 
An' doucely manage our affairs 

In parliament, 
To you a simple Poet's prayers 

Are humbly sent. 

Alas ! my roupet Muse is hearse ! 

Your Honors heart wi' grief 'twad pierce. 

To see her sittin on her a — 

Low i' the dust. 
An' scriechin out prosaic verse, 

An' like to hrust! 

*This was written before the act aneut the 
Scotch Distilleries, of session 1786; for which 
Scotland and the Author return their most grate- 
ful thanks. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



17 



Tell them wha hae the chief direction, 
Scotland an' mc's in great affliction, 
E'er sin' they laid tliat curst restriction 

On Jiq^iavitce ; 
An' rouse them up to strong conviction. 

An' move their pity. 

Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier Youth, 

The honest open, naked, truth : 

Toll him o'mine an' Scotland's drouth, 

His servants humble : 
The muckle devil blaw ye south, 

If ye dissemble ! 

Does ony great man glunch an' gloom ? 
Speak out, an' never fash your thumb ! 
Let posts an' pensions sink or soom 

Wi' them wha grant 'em: 
If honestly they cannacome. 

Far better want 'em. 

In gath'ring votes you werena' slack ; 
Now stand as tightly by your tack ; 
Ne'er claw your lug, an' fidge your back, 

An' hum an' haw ; 
But raise your arm, an' tell your crack 

Before them a'. 

Paint Scotland greeting owre her thrissle ; 
Her mutckin stoup as toom's a whissle : 
An' d — mn'cl Excisemen in a bussle. 

Seizin' a Stell, 
Triumphant crushin't like a mussel 

Or lainpit shell. 

Then on the tither hand present her, 

A blackguard Smuggler right behint her, 

An' cheek-for-chow, a chuffie Vintner 

Colleaguing join, 
Picking her pouch as bare as winter 

Of a' kind coin. 

Is there, that bears the name o' Scot, 
But feels his heart's bluid rising hot. 
To see his poor auld Mither's jjot 

Thus dung in staves, 
An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groat 

By gallowsknav.es.'' 

Alas ! I'm but a nameless wight, 
Trode i' the mire an' out o' sight ! 
But coiild I like Montgomcrics fight. 

Or gab like Boswcll, 
There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight, 

An' tie some hose well. 

God bless your Honors, can ye see't 
The kind, auld, can tie Carlin greet, 
An' no get warmly to your feet. 

An' gar them hear it. 
An' tell them wi' a patriot heat, 

Ye winna bear it ? 

Some o' you nicely ken the laws, 
To round the period an' pause. 
An' wi' rhetoric clause on clause 

To niak' harangues ;' 
Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's 

Auld Scotland's wrangs. 



Dempster^ a true blue Scot I'se warran' : 
Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran:* 
An' that glib-gabbet Highland Baron, 

The Laird o' Graham:\ 
An' ane, a chap that's d — mn'd auldfarran, 

Dundas his name. 

Ershlnc, a spunkie Norland billiq,.; 
True CampbellSf Frederick an' Hay ; 
An' Livingstone, the bauld ISir IFitlie ; 

An' monie ithers, 
Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully 

Might own for brithers. 

Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle. 
To get auld Scotland back her kettle ; 
Or faith ! I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle, 

Ye'll see't or lang, 
She'll teach you, wi' a reekin' whittle, 

Anither sang. 

This while she's been in crankous mood, 
Her lost Militia fir'd her bluid ; 
(Deil na they never mair do guid, 

Play'd her that pliskie !) 
An' now she's like to rin red wud 

About her Whiskey. 

An' L — d, if ance they pit her till't, 
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt. 
An' durk an pistol in her belt, 

She'll tak' the streets, 
An' rin her whittle to the hilt, 

X' the first she meets 1 

For G-d sake, Sirs ! then speak her fair, 
An' straik her cannie wi' the hair, 
An' to the muckle house repair 

Wi' instant speed. 
An' strive, wi' a' your wit and lear, 

To get remead. 

Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, 
May taunt you wi' his jeers an' jokes ; 
But gie him't het, my hearty cocks ! 

E'en cowe the caddie ; 
An' send him to his dicing box 

An' sportin' lady. 

Tell 3'^on guid bluid o' auld BoconnocJvS 
I'll be his debt twa mashium bannocks. 
An' drink his health in auld JVanse Tinnoch'sX 

Nine times a-Aveek, 
If lie some scheme, like tea an' winnocks. 

Wad kindly seek. 

Could he some commutation broach, 
I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scolcli, 
He needna fear their foul reproach 

Nor erudition. 
Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch, 

The Coalition. 



* Sir Adam Ferguson. 

f The present Duke of Montrose. 
\ A. worthy old Hostess of the Author's in 
MauchUne, where he sometimes studies Politics 
over a glass of guid auld Scotch Drink. 



18 



BURNS S POEMS. 



Aald Scotland has a raucle tongue : 
She's just a devil wi' a rung ; 
An' if she promise auld or young 

To tak' their part, 
Tho' by the neck she should be strung, 

She'll no desert. 

An' now, ye chosen Five- and- Forty, 
May still your Mither's heart support ye ; 
Then, though a Minister grow dorty, 

An' kick your place, 
Ye '11 snap your fingers, poor an' hearty 

Before his face. 

God bless your Honours a' your days, 
Wi' sowps o' kail and brats o' claies. 
In spite o' a' the thievish knaves 

That haunt St. Jamie's ! 
Your humble Poet sings an' prays 

While Rab his name is. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Let half-starv'd slaves, in warmer skies 
See future wines, rich clust'ring, rise j 
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies. 

But blyth and frisky. 
She eyes her free-born, martial boys, 

Tak' aff their Whiskey. 

What though their Phoebus kinder warms. 
While fragrance blooms, and beauty charms ! 
When wretches range in famish 'd swarms. 
The scented groves, 



Or hounded forth, dishonour arms 

In hungry droves. 

Their gun's a burden on their shouther ; 
They downa bide the stink o' powther ; 
Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring swither 

To Stan' or rin, 
Till skelp — a shot — they're aff, a' throwther, 

To save their skin. 

But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, 
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, 
Say, such is royal George's will, 

An' there's the foe. 
He has nae thought but how to kill 

Twa at a blow. 

Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him : 
Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him j 
Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him : 

An' when he fa's, 
His latest draught o' breathin' lea'es him 

In faint huzzas. 

Sages their solemn een may steek, 
An' raise a philosophic reek, 
An' physically causes seek, 

In clime and season j 
But tell me Whisky's name in Greek, 

I'll tell the reason. 

Scotland, my auld, respected Mither ! 
Tho' whiles ye moistify your leather, 
Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather, 

Ye tine your dam ; 
(Freedom and Whisky gang thegither !) 

'TsS:' ^your dram! 





DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK. 

A TRUE STORY. 

Some books are lies frae end to end, 
And some great lies were never penn'd : 
Ev'n Ministers, they hae been kenn'd, 

In holy rapture, 
A rousing whid, at times, to vend. 

And nail't wi' Scripture. 

But this that I am gaun to tell, 
Which lately on a night befell 
Is just as true's the Deil's in h-U 

Or Dublin city : 
That e'er he nearer comes oursel'. 

The mair's the pity. 

The clachan yill had made me canty, 

I was na fou, but just had plenty : 

I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent aye 

To free the ditches ; 
An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd aye, 

Frae ghaists an' witches. 

The rising moon began to glowr 
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre : 
To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r, 

I set mysel' ; 
But whether she had three or four, 

I cou'd na tell. 

I was come round about the hill. 
And todlin' down on Willie's millj 
Setting my staff wi' a' my skill. 

To keep me sicker ; 
Tho' leeward whyles, against my will, 

I took a bicker. 

I there wi' Something did forgather, 

That put we in an eerie swither ', 

An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther. 

Clear-dangling, hang : 
A three-taid leister on the ither 

Lay, large an' lang. 



Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, 
The queerest shape that e'er I saw, 
For feint a wame it had ava ! 

And then, its shanks. 
They were as thin, as sharp an' sraa' 

As cheeks o' branks. 

' Guid-een,' quo' I ; ' Friend ! hae ye been 

mawin'. 
When ither folk are busy sawin' ?* 
It seem'd to mak' a kind o' stan', 

But nathing spak' ; 
At length, says I, ' Friend, whare ye gaun, 

Will ye go back ?' 

It spak' right howe— ' My name is Deathf 
But be na fley'd,— Quoth I, < Guid faith, 
Ye're maybe come to stap my breath ; 

But tent me, billie : 
I red ye weel, tak' care o' skaith. 

See, there's a gully !' 

' Gudeman,' quo' he, * put up your whittle, 
I'm no design'd to try its mettle ; 
But if I did, I wad be kittle 

To be mislear'd, 
I wadna mind it, no that spittle 

Out-owre mo beard.' 

' Weel, weel !' says I, ' a bargain be't ; 
Come, giesyour hand, an' sae we're gree't; 
We'll ease our shaniis an' tak' a seat, 

. Come, gies your news ; 
This whilef ye hae been niony a gate, 

At mony a house.' 

* Aye, Aye !' quo' he, an' shook his head, 

* It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed 
Sin' I began to nick the thread. 

An' choke the breath : 



* This renconter happened in seed time, 17U5. 
f An epidemical fever was raging in that coun- 



try. 



20 



BURNS S POEMS. 



Folk maun do eometliing for the bread, 
An' sae maun Death. 

' Sax thousand years are near-hand fled, 

Sin' I was to the butch'ring bred. 

An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid, 

To stap or scar me ; 
Till ane Hornbook's^ ta'en up the trade, 

An' faith he'll waur me. 

* Ye ken Jock llornhooh i' the Clachan, 
Diel mak' his king's-hood in a spleuchan ! 
He's grown sae weel acquaint wi' Buchan\ 

An' ither chaps, 
The weans baud out their fingers laughin' 
And pouk my hips. 

* See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart, 
They hae pierc'd money a gallant Jieart ; 
But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art 

And cursed skill. 
Has made them baith no worth a f — t, 

Damn'd haet they'll kill. 

* 'Twas but yestreen, na farther gaen, 
I threw a noble throw at ane : 

Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain: 
But deil-ma-care, 

It just play'd dirl on the bane. 

But did na mair. 

* Hornbook was by, wi' ready art, 
And had sae fortify'd the part, 
That when I looked to my dart, 

It was sae blunt, 
Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart 
O' a kail -runt. 

' I drew my scythe in sic a fury, 
I near-hand cowpit wi' my hurry. 
But yet the bauld JJpothecary 

Withstood the shock . 
I might as weel hae try'd a quarry 

O' hard whin rock. 

' Ev'n them he canna get attended, 
Altho' their face he ne'er had kend it. 
Just in a kail-blade, and send it. 

As soon's he smells't, 
Baith their disease, and what will mend it, 

At once he tells't. 

' And then, a' doctor's saws an' whittles, 
Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles, 
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles. 

He's sure to hae ; 
Their Latin names as fast he rattles 

As A B C. 

' Calces o' fossils, earth and trees ; 
True Sal-marinura o' the seas ; 
The Farina of beans and pease, 

He has't in plenty ; 
Aqua-fontis, what you please, 

He can content ye. 

* This gentleman, Dr. Hornbook, is, profes- 
sionally, a brother of the Sovereign Order of the 
Ferula; but, by intuition and inspiration, is at 
once an Apothecary, Surgeon, and I'hysician. 
f Buchan's Domestic xMedicine. 



' Forbyc some new, uncommon weapon.s, 

Urinus Spiritus of capons; 

Or Mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings. 

Distill'd per sc; 
Sal-alkali o' Midge-tail clippings. 

And mony mae.' 

' Waes me for Johnie Ged's Hole* now,' 
Quo' I, * if that the news he true ! 
His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew, 
>, Sae white and bonnie, 

Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plough. 
They'll ruin Johnie!' 

The creature grain'd an eldreich laugh, 
And says, ' Ye needna yoke the plough, 
Kirkyards will soon be till'd eneugh, 

Tak' ye nae fear : 
They'll a' be trench"d wi' mony a sheugh 

In twa-r' three year. • 

' Where I kill'd ane a fair strae death, 
By loss o' bl'ud or want of breath, 
This night I'm free to tak' my aith, 

- That Hornbook's skill 

Has clad a score i' their claith. 

By drap an' pill. 

' An honest Wabster to his trade, 

Whase wife's twa neives were scarce weel 

J)red, 
Gat tippence worth to mend her head, 

When it was sair : 
The wife slade cannie to her bed, 

But ne'er spak' mair. 

' A countra Laird had ta'en the batts, 
Or some curmurrin' in his guts. 
His only son for Hornbook sets. 

An' pays him weel. 
The lad, for twa guid gimmer pets. 

Was laird himsel'. 

' A bonnie lass, ye kend her name. 

Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wamc ' 

She trusts hersel', to hide the shame. 

In Hornbook's care ; 
Horn sent her afF to her lang hame. 

To hide it there. 

' That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way ; 
Thus goes he on from day to day. 
Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay, 

An's weel paid for't ; 
Yet robs me o' my lawfu' prey, 

Wi' his d-m'd dirt. 

' But, hark! I'll tell you of a plot, 
Tho' dinna ye be speaking o't; 
I'll nail the self-conceited Sot 

As dead's a herrin' : 
Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat, 

He gets his fairin' !' 

But just as he began to tell. 

The aulk kirk-hammer struck the bell 

Some wee short hour ayont the tical, 

Which rais'd us baith : 
I took the way that pleas'd mysel'. 

And sae did Death. 

* The grave digger. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



21 



THE BRIGS OF AYR. 

A POEM. 
INSCRIBED TO J. B. * * * * *, ESQ. AYR. 

The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, 
Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough *, 
The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush, 
Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green 

thorn bush ; 
The soaring lark, the perching red-breast 

shrill, 
Or deep-toned plovers, gray, wild-whistling 

o'er the hill ; 
Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lowly shed, 
To hardy Independence bravely bred, 
By early Poverty to hardship steel'd. 
And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's 

field; 
Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes. 
The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes ? 
Or labour hard the panegyric close, 
With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose ? 
No ! though his artless strains he rudely 

sings, 
And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the 

strings, 
He glows with ail the spirit of the Bard, 
Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear 

reward. 
Still, if some Patron's gen'rous care he trace j 
Skill'd in the secret, to bestow with grace ; 
When B * * * befriends his humble name 
And hands the rustic stranger up to fame, 
With heart-felt throes his grateful bosom 

swells, 
The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels. 



'Twas when the stacks gat on their winter 

hap. 
And thack and rape secure tlio toil- won crap; 
Potatoe-bings are snugged up fra skaith 
Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath ; 
The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils, 
Unnumber'd buds an' flow'rs delicious spoils, 
Seal'd up wi' frugal care in massive waxen 

piles. 
Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the 

weak, 
The death o' devils smoor'd wi' brimstone 

reek : 
The thundering guns are heard on ev'ry 

side. 
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide ; 
The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's 

tie. 
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie : 
(What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds, 
And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds!) 
Nae niair the flow'r in field or meadow 

springs ; 
Nae mair the grove wi' airy concert rings, 
Except perhaps the Robin's whistling glee. 
Proud o' the height o' some bit hallPflin' 

tree ; 



The hoary morns precede the sunny days. 
Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noon- 
tide blaze, 
While thick the gossamer waves wanton 

in the rays. 
'Twas in that season, when a simple bard. 
Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward, 
Ae night, within the ancient brugh of ^yr, 
By whim inspir'd, or haply prest wi' care ; 
He left his bed, and took his wayward route. 
And down by Simpson's^ wheel'd the left 

about : 
(Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate, 
To witness what I after shall narrate ; 
Or whether, rapt in meditation high, 
He wander'd out he knew not where nor 

why :) 
The drowsy Dungeon clock] had number'd 

two. 
And Wallace Tow'rX had sworn the fact was 

true : 
The tide-swoln Frith, wi' sullen sounding 

roar, 
Through the still night dash'd hoarse along 

the shore ; 
All else was hush'd as Nature's closed e'e ; 
The silent moon shone high o'er tow'r and 

tree : 
The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, 
Crept, gently-crusting, owre the glittering 

stream. — 
When, lo ! on either hand the list'ning 

Bard, 
The clanging sugh o' whistling wings is 

heard ; 
Twa dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air. 
Swift as the Go5§ dives on the wheeling 

hare ; 
Ane on th' Auld ^Wo- his airy shape uprears. 
The itlier flutters owre the rising piers : 
Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry'd 
The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr 

preside. 
(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, 
And ken the lingo o' the sp'ritual fo'k ; 
Fays, Spunldes, Kelpies, a' they can explain 

them. 
And ev'n the vera deils they brawly ken 

them.) 
Auld Brig appear'd o' ancient Pictish race, 
The vera wrinkles Gothic in his face : 
He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang, 
Yet teughly doure, he baide an unco bang. 
New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat, 
That he, in London, frae ane Adams, got; 
In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, 
Wi' virls and whirligigums at the head. 
The Goth was stalking round wi' anxious 

search, 
Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch ; 
It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his ee, 
And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he ! 

* A noted tavern at the Auld iirig end. 
•]• A steeple. \ A steeple. 

5 The Gos-hawk, or Falcon. 



22 



BURNS S POEMS. 



Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modish mien, 
He, down the water, gies him this guid- 
e'en : — 

ADLD BRIG. 

I doutna, fricn', ye '11 think ye're nae 

sheepshank, 
Ance ye were streekit owre frae bank to 

bank ! 
But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, 
Tho', faith ! that day, I doubt, ye'U never 

see ; 
There'll be, if that date come, I'll wad a 

boddle, 
Some fewer whigraeleeries in your noddle 

NEW BRIG. 

Auld Vandal, ye but show your little 

mense, 
Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; 
Will your poor narrow foot-path o' a street, 
Whare twa wheel-barrows tremble when 

they meet. 
Your ruin'd, formless bulk o' stane an' lime. 
Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o' modern time .'' 
There's men o' taste would tak' the Ducat- 

stream*, 
Tho' they should cast the vera sark and swim, 
Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the 

view 
O' sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you. 

AULD BRIG. 

Conceited gowk! puff'd up wi' windy 

pride ! 
This mony year I've stood the iflood an' tide ; 
And tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, 
I'll be a Brig, when ye're a shapeless cairn ! 
As yet ye little ken about the matter, 
But twa-three winters will inform ye better. 
When heavy, dark, continued, a' day rains, 
Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains ; 
When from the hills where springs the braw- 
ling Coil, 
Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil, 
Or whare the Greenock winds his muirland 

course, 
Or haunted Garpal\ draws his feeble source, 
Arous'd by blust'ring winds an' spotting 

thowes, 
In mony a torrent down his sna-broo rowes ; 
While crashing ice, borne on the roaring 

speat, 
Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the 

gate; 
And from Glenhuckt, down to the Ratton- 

key\, 
Auld^t/r is just one lengthen'd, tiunbling sea; 



* A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig. 

f The banks of Garpal Water is one of the few 
places in^ the West of Scotland, where those fan- 
cy-scaring beings, known by the name of Ghaists, 
still continue pertinaciously to inhabit. 

X The source of the river Ayr. 

} A small landing place above tlie large key. 



Then down ye'll hurl, deil nor ye never rise 
And dash the jumlie jaups up to the pour- 
ing skies. 
A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost, 
That Architecture's noble art is lost ! 

NEW BRIG. 

Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must 
say't o't ! 
The L — d be thankit that we've tint the 

gait o't ! 
Gaunt, ghaistly, ghaist-alluring edifices. 
Hanging wi' threat'ning jut, like precipices ; 
Owre arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring 

coves, 
Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves: 
Windows and doors, in nameless sculpture 

drest, 
Wi' order, symmetry, or taste unblest ; 
Forms like some bedlam statuary's dream. 
The craz'd creations o' misguided whim ; 
Form's might be worshipp'd on the bended 

knee, 
And still the second dread command be free, 
Their likeness is not foxmd on earth, in air, 

or sea. 
Mansions that would disgrace the building 

taste 
O' ony mason reptile, bird or beast ; 
Fit only for a doited Monkish race. 
Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace, 
Or Cuifs o' later times, wha held the notion 
That sullen gloom vs^as sterling true devotion ; 
Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protec- 
tion, 
And soon may they expire unblest wi' resur- 
rection ! 

AULD BRIG. 

O ye, my dear-remember'd, ancient yealings 
Were ye but here to share my wounded 

feelings ! 
Ye worthy Pravos^ses, an' mony a Bailie, 
Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil 

ay ; 

Ye dainty Deacons, and ye douce Conveeners, 

To whom our moderns are but causey-way 
cleaners ; 

Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town ; 

Yefgodly Brethren o' the sacred gown, 

Wha meekly gie your hurdles to the smiters ; 

And (what would now be strange) yer godly 
Writers : 

A' ye douce folK I've borne aboon the broo. 

Were ye but here, what would ye say or do ? 

How would your spirits groan in deep vex- 
ation. 

To see each melancholy alteration ; 

And agonizing, curse the time and place 

When ye begat the base, degen'rate race ! 

Nae langer Rev'rend Men, their country's 
g^ory, 

In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid 
story ! 

Nae langer thrifty Citizens, an' douce, 

Meet owre a pint, or in the Council-house ; 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



23 



But staumrel,corky-headed,gracelesg gentry, 
The herriment and ruin o' the country ; 
Men three-parts made by Tailors and by 

Barbers, 
Wha waste your weel-hain'd gear on d — d 

new Brigs and Harbours I 

NEW BRIG. 

Now haud you there ! for faith ye've said 

enough; 
And muckle mair than ye can mak' to 

through ; 
As for your priesthood, I shall say but little. 
Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle : 
But, under favour o' your langer beard. 
Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spar'd : 
To liken them to your auld-warld squad, 
I must needs say, comparisons are odd. 
In Ayr, wag-wits nae mair can hae a handle 
To mouth ' a Citizen,' a term o' scandal : 
Nae mair the Council waddles down the 

street. 
In a' the pomp o' ignorant conceit ; 
Men wha grew wise priggin' owre hops an' 

raisins, 
Or gather 'd lib'ral views in Bonds and 

Seisins. 
If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp, 
Had shor'd them wi' a glimmer o' his lamp, 
And would to Common-sense for ance be- 
tray them. 
Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid 

them. 



"What farther clishmaclaver might been 
said. 
What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to 

shed, 
Nae man can tell ; but a' before their sight 
A fairy train appear'd in order bright : 
Adown the glittering stream they fleetly 

danc'd ; 
Bright to the moon their various dresses 

glanc'd : 
They footed owre the wat'ry glass so neat, 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet: 
While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung, 
And soul-ennobling Bards heroic ditties 

sung, 
O had M'Lauchlan*j thairm-inspiring Sage, 
Been there to hear this heavenly band 

engage, 
When thro' his dear Srathspeys they bore 

with Highland rage 
Or when they struck auld Scotia's melting 

airs, 
The lover's raptur'd joys or bleeding cares ; 
How would his Highland lug been nobler 

fir'd, 
And ev'n his matchless hand with finer touch 

inspir'd ! 

* A well-known performer of Scottish music 
on the violin. 



No guess could tell what instrument 

appear'd 
But all the soul of Music's self was heard j 
Harmonious concert rung in evry part, 
While simple melody pour'd moving on the 

heart. 
The Genius of the stream in front appears, 
A venerable Cheif advanc'd in years : 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, 
His manly leg with garter tangle bound. 
Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring, 
Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with 

Spring : 
Then crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural 

Joy, 

And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye: 
All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, 
Led yellow Autum wreath'd with nodding 

corn 
Then winter's time-bleech'd locks did hoary 

show, 
By hospitality with cloudless brow; 
Next follow'd Courage with his martial 

stride, 
From where the JPeaZ wild woody coverts 

hide; 
Benevolence, with mild ; benignant air, 
A female form, came from the tow'rs of 

Stair: 
Learning and Worth in equal measures 

trode 
From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode : 
Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a 

hazel wreath, 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken iron instruments of death ; 
At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their 
kindling wrath. 

THE ORDINATION. 



For sense they little owe to frugal Heav'n — 
To please the Mob they hide the little giv'n. 

Kilmarnock Wabsters fidge an' claw, 

An' pour your creeshie nations ; 
An' ye wha leather rax an' draw, 

O' a' denomintions, 
Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an' a', 

An' there tak' up your stations ; 
Then aff" to B~gb — '5 in a raw, 

An pour divine libations 

For joy this day 

Curst Common-sense, that imp o' h-U, 

Cam' in wi' Maggie Lauder*; 
But 0*****'''*aft made her yell. 

An' R * * * * * sair misca'd her ; 
This day M' ****** * tak's the flail, 

An' he's the boy will blaud her ! 

t Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was 
made on the admission of the late Reverend and 
worthy Mr. L. to the Laigh Kirk. 



24 



BURNS S POEMS. 



He'll clap a shangan on her tail, 
An' set the bairns to daub her 
Wi' dirt this day. 

Mak' haste an' turn king David owre, 

An' lilt wi' holy clangor; 
O' double verse, come gie us four, 

An' skirl up the Bangor : 
This day the kirk kicks up a stoure, 

Nae mair the knaves 'ill wrang her, 
For heresy is in her pow'r, 

An' gloriously shall whang her 

Wi' pith this day. 

Come, let a proper text be read, 

An' touch it afF wi' vigour. 
How graceless Ham* leugh at his dad, 

Which made Canaan a niger ; 
Or Phbicas] drove the murdering blade, 

Wi' wh-re-abhorring rigour ; 
Or ZipporaX the^caulding jade, 

Was like a bluidy tiger 

r th' inu that day. 

There, try his mettle on the creed, 

An' bind him down wi' caution. 
That Stipend is a carnal weed *■ 

He tak's but for the fashion ; 
An' gie him owre the flock, to feed. 

An' punish each transgression; 
'Specially rajris that cross the breed, 

Gie them sufficient threshin", — 

Spare them nae day. 

Now auld Kilmarnock cock thy tail, 

An' toss thy horns fu' canty ; 
Nae mair thou'lt rowte out-owre the dale, 

Because thy pasture's scanty ; 
For lapfu's large o' gospel kail 

Shall fill thy crib in plenty, 
An' runts o' grace the pick and wale. 

No gi'en by way o' dainty. 
But ilka day. 

Nae mair by BaheVs streams we'll weep ; 

To think upon our Zion ; 
But hing our fiddles up to sleep. 

Like baby-clouts a-dryin : 
Come, screw the pegs wi' tunefu' cheep 

An' o'er the thairms be tryin' ; 
Oh, rare! to see our elbucks weep. 

An' a' like lamb-tails flyin' 

Fu' fast this day ! 

Lang Patronage, wi' rod o' airn, 
Has shor'd the Kirk's undoin', 

As lately F-nw-ck sair forfairn, 
Has proven to its ruin : ■ 

Our Patron, honest man ! Glcncairn, 
He saw mischeif was brewin'. 



* Genesis, ch. ix. ver. 22. 
f Numbers, ch, xxv. ver. 8. 
\ Exodus, ch. iv. ver, 25. 



An' like a godly elect bairn, 
He's wal'd us out a true ane, 

And sound this day. 

Now R ***»■»* « harangue nae mair. 

But steek your gab for ever: 
Or try the wicked town of A * *, 

For there they'll think you clever ; 
Or, nae reflection on your lear, 

Ye may commence a shaver; 
Or to the JV-th-rt-n repair, 

An' turn a carpet weaver 

AfF-hand this day. 

M * * * * * and you were just a match, 

We never had sic twa drones : 
Auld Hornic did the Laigh Kirk watch, 

Just like a winkin' baudrons : 
An' aye he catched the tither wretch, 

To fry them in his caudrons : 
But now his honour maun detach, 

Wi' a' his brimstane squadrons, 

Fast, Fast this day. 

See see auld Orthodoxy's faes 

She's swingein' thro' the city : 
Hark, how the nine-taild cat she plays ! 

I vow it's unco pretty : 
There, Learning, wi' his Greekish face, 

Grunts out some Latin ditty ; 
An' Common Sense is gaun, she says, 

To mak' to Jamie Bcattie 

Her plaint this day. 

But there's Morality himsel'. 

Embracing a' opinions ; 
Hear, how he gies the tither yell, 

Between hie twa companions ; 
See, how she peels the sdiin an' fell. 

As ane were peelin' onions ! 
Now there — they're packed afl'to hell. 

And banish'd our dominions, 

Henceforth this day. 

O happy day ! rejoice, rejoice ! 

Come bouse about the porter ! 

Morality's demure decoys 

Shall here nae mair find quarter : 
]^, ^ ^ « * . «. «^ j^ * * « * .^^ ^j.^ ^j^g ^^^,g 

That Heresy can torture ; 
They'll gie her on a rape ahoyse. 
And cow her measure shorter 

By th' head same day. 

Come, bring the tither mutchkin in. 

And here's for a conclusion, 
To every Kcto Light* mother's son, 

From this time forth. Confusion : 
If mair they deave as wi' their din. 

Or Patronage intrusion, 
Well light a spunk, and, every skin, 

We"ll rin them afl"in fusion 

Like oil, some day. 



* JVczo Light is a cant phrase, in the West of 
Scodand, for those religious opinions which Dr. 
Taylor of Norwich has defended so strenuously. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



25 



THE CALF. 



TO THE REV. MR. 



ON HIS TEXT, MALACHI, CHAP. IV. VER. 2, 

** And they shall go forth, and grow up^ like 
calves of the stalW 

Rijtrht Sir ! your text I'll prove it true, 
Though Heretics may laugh ; 

For instance ; there's yoursel' just now, 
God knows, an unco Calf! 

And should some Patron be so kind, 

As bless you wi' a kirk, 
I doutna, Sir, but then we'll find, 

\e're still as great a Stirk. 

But, if the Lover's raptur'd hour 

Shall ever be your lot, 
Forbid it ev'ry heavenly Power, 

You e'er should be a Stot ! 

Tho', when some kind, connubial Dear, 

Your but-and-ben adorns, 
The like has been that you may wear 

A noble head of horns. 

And in your lug most reverend James, 
To hear you roar and rowte. 

Few men o' sense will doubt your claims 
To rank amang the nowte. 

And when ye're number 'd wi' the dead, 

Below a grassy hillock, 
Wi' justice they may mark your head — 

' Here lies a famous Bullock T 



THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF 

POOR MAILIE, 
The Authofs only Pet Yowe. 

AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE. 

As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither, 
Were ae day nibbling on the tether, 
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, 
An' owre she warsl'd i' the ditch : 
There, groaning, dying, she did lie. 
When Hughoc* he cam' doytin' by. 

Wi' glowrin' een, an' lifted ban's. 
Poor Ilughoc like a statue stan's ; 
He saw her days were near-hand ended, 
But, waes my heart ! he couldna mend it! 
He gaped wide, but naething spak' ! 
At length poor Mailie silence brak'. 

' O thou, whase lamentable face 
Appears to mourn my waefu' case ! 
My dying words attentive hear. 
An' bear them to my Master dear. 

' Tell him, if e'er again he keep 
As muckle gear as buy a sheep, 



bid him never tie them mair 
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair ! 
But ca' them out to park or hill. 
An' let them wander at their will ; 
So may his flock increase, an' grow 
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo'! 

' Tell him, he was a Master kin'. 
An' ay was guid to me and mine ; 
An' no\y my dying charge I gie him. 
My helpless lambs 1 trust them wi' him. 

* O, bid him save their harmless lives, 
Frae dogs, an' tods, an butchers' knives! 
But gie them guid cow-milk their fill, 
Till they be fit to fend themsel' : 
An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, 
Wi' teats o' hay an' rips o' corn. 

An' may they never learn the gaites 
C)f ither vile wanreslfu' pets ! 
To slink thro' slaps, an reave an' steal, 
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail. 
So may they, like their great forbears, 
For monie a year come thro' the sheers ; 
So wives will gie them bits o' bread, 
An' bairns greet for them when they're dead, 

' My poor toop-lamb, my son an' heir, 
O, bid him breed him up wi' care ! ^ 

An', if he live to be a beast. 
To pit some havins in his breast ! 
An' warn him, what I winna name. 
To stay content wi' yowes at hame ; 
An' no to rin an' wear his cloots. 
Like ither menseless, graceless brutes. 

An niest my yowie, sillie thing, 
Gude keep thee frae a tether string ! 
O, may thou ne'er forgather up 
Wi' ony blastit, muirland toop ; 
But aye keep mind to moop an' mell, 
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel' I 

' An' now, my bairns, wi' my last breath 

1 lea'e my blessin' wi' you baith : 

An' when you think upo' your Mithcr, 
Mind to be kin' to ane anither. 

' Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail. 
To tell my Master a' my tale ; 
An' bid him burn this cursed tether. 
An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blether. 

This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, 
An clos'd her een amanor the dead. 



* A neebor herd-callan. 



POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY. 

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, 

Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose ; 

Our bardie's fate is at a close, 

Past a' remead ; 
The last sad cape-stane o' his woes ; 

Poor Mailie 's dead ! 

It's no the loss o' warl's gear, 
That could sae bitter draw the tear, 
Or mak' our bardie, dowie, wear 

The mourning weed : 
He's lost a friend and aeebor dear, 

In Mailie dead. 



26 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



Thro' a' the toun she trotted by him ; 
A lang half-mile she could descry him ; 
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him, 

She ran wi' speed : 
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam' nigh him, 

Than Mailie dead. 

I wat she was a sheep o' sense, 
An' could behave hersel' wi' mense : 
I'll say't, she never brak' a fence, 

Thro' thievish greed. 
Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence 

Sin' Mailie 's dead. 

Or if lie wanders up the howe, 
Her living image in her yoioe, 
Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe, 

For bits o' bread ; 
An' down the briny pearls rowe 

For Mailie dead. 



She was nae get o' muirland toops, 

Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips ; 

For her forbears were brought in ships 

Frae 'yont the Tweed 
A bonnier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips 

Than Mailie dead. 

Wae worth the man wha first did shape 
That vile wanchancie thing — a rape ! 
It makes guid fellows girn an' gape, 

Wi' chokin' dread ; 
An' Roliri's bonnet wave wi' crape. 

For Mailie dead. 

O, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon ! 
An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune ! 
Come, join the melancholious croon 

O' Robin's reed! 
His heart will never get aboon 

His Mailie dead. 





ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 



O Prince ! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs, 
That led th' embattled Seraphim to war. 

Milton. 



O thou ! whatever title suit thee, 
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie, 

Closed under hatches, 
Spairges about the brunstane cootie. 

To scaud poor wretches ! 

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, 
An' let poor damned bodies be ; 
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, 

E'en to a deil, 
To skelp and scaud poor dogs like me. 

An' hear us squeel ! 

Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame ; 
Far kend and noted is thy name ; 
An' the' yon lowin' heugh's thy hame, 
' Thou travels far ; 

An' faith ! thou's neither lag nor lame. 
Nor blate nor scaur. 

"Whyles, ranging like a roarin' lion, 
For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin' ; 
"Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin', 

TirUng the kirks ; 
Whyles, in the human bosom pry in'. 

Unseen thou lurks. 

I've heard my reverend Grannie say, 
In lanely glens ye like to stray ; 
Or where auld ruin'd castles, gray, 

Nod to the moon. 
Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way, 

Wi' eldreich croon. 



I 



When twilight did my Grannie summon 
To say her prayers, douce, honest woman ; 
Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin', 

Wi' eerie drone ; 
Or, rustlin', thro' the boortries comin', 

Wi' heavy groan. 

Ae dreary, windy, winter night, 

The stars shot down wi' sklentin' light, 

Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright, 

Ayont the loch j 
Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight, 

Wi' waving sugh. 

The cudgel in my nieve did shake. 
Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, 
When wi' an eldreich stour, quaick-quaick— 

Amang the springs, 
Awa ye squatter 'd, like a drake, 

On whistling wings. 

Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags. 
Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags, 
They skim the muirs, an' dizzy crags, 

Wi' wicked speed j 
And in kirk-yards renew their leagues, 

Owre howkit dead. 

Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain. 
May plunge and plunge the kirn in vain ; 
For, oh ! the yellow treasure's taen 

By witching skill ; 
An' dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie's gaen * 

As yell's the Bill. 

Thence mystic knots mak' great abuse, 
On young Guidman, fond, keen, an' crouse 
When the best wark-lume i' the house, 

By cantrip wit, 
Is instant made no worth a louse. 

Just at the bit. 



28 



BURNS S POEMS. 



When thowes dissolve the snawy horde, 
An' float the jinglin' icy-board, 
Then Water-kclpies haunt the ford, 

By your direction, 
An' nighted Trav'llers are allur'd 

To their destruction. 

An' aft your moss-traversing Spunkies 
Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is : 
The bleezin', curst, mischievous monkeys 

Delude his eyes, 
Till in some miry slough he sunk is. 

Ne'er mair to rise. 

When Masons^ mystic word an' grip 
In storms an' tempests raise you up, 
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, 

Or, strange to tell ! 
The youngest Brother ye wad whip 

Aff straught to hell ! 

Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard, 
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd. 
An' a' the soul of love they shar'd, 

The raptur'd hour, 
Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry swaird, 

In shady bow'r : 

Then you, ye auld, sneck-drawing dog ! 

Ye came to Paradise incog', 

An' play'd on man a cursed brogue, 

(Black bo your fa' !) 
An' gied the infant warld a shog-, 

'Maist ruin'd a'. 

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, 
Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz, 
Ye did present your sootie phiz 

'Mang better fo'fc, 
An' sklented on the man of Uzz 

Your spitefu' joke ? 

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, 
An' brak' him out o' house an' hall. 
While scabs and blotches did him gall, 

Wi' bitter claw. 
An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd, wicked Scawl, 

Was 't warst ava ? 

But a' your doings to rehearse. 
Your wily snares an' fechtin' fierce. 
Sin' that day Michael* did you pierce, 

Down to this time, 
Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse, 

In prose or rhyme. 

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye 're thinkin', 
A certain Bardie's rantin', drinkin', 
Some luckless hour will send him linkin', 

To your black pit j 
But, faith ! he'll turn a corner jinkin', 

An' cheat you yet. 

But, fare you weel, auld McJde-ben! 
O wad ye tak' a thought an' men' ! 
Ye aiblins might— I dinna ken — 

Still hae a stake — 
I'm was to think upo' yon den, 

Ev'n for your sake ! 



TO J. S * • ■* *. 



* Vide Milton, Book IV. 



Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul! 

Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society ! 

1 owe thee much. Blair, 



Dear S * "^ * *, the sleest, paukie thief, 
That e'er attempted stealth or rief, 
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef 

Owre human hearts; 
For ne'er a bosom yet was prief 

Against your arts. 

For me, I swear by sun and moon, 
And ev'ry star that blinks aboon, 
Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon 

Just gaun to see you ', 
An ev'ry ither pair that's done, 

Mair taen I'm wi' you. 

That auld capricious carlin, Nature, 
To mak' amends for scrimpit stature, 
She's turn'd you aff, a human creature 

On her first plan. 
And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature. 

She's wrote the Man. 

Just now I've ta'en the fit o' rhyme. 
My barmie noddle's working prime, 
My fancie yerkit up sublime 

Wi' hasty summon : 
Hae ye a leisure-moment's time 

To hear what's comin' ? 

Some rhyme, a neebor's name to lash ; 
Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu' 

cash , 
Some rhyme to court the kintra clash. 

An' mak' a din ; 
For me, an aim I never fash ; 

I rhyme for fun. 

The star that rules my luckless lot, 

Has fated me the russet coat. 

An' damn'd my fortune to the groat ; 

But in re quit, 
Has blest me wi' a random shot 

O' kintra wit. 

This while my notion's ta'en a sklent, 
To try my faie in guid black prent ; 
But still, the mair I'm that way bent. 

Something cries, '■ Hoolie ! 
I red you, honest man, tak' tent ! 

Ye'll show your folly. 

' There's ither poets, much your betters, 
Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, 
Hae thought they had insur'd their debtors, 

A' future ages ; 
Now moths deform in shapeless tatters. 

Their unknown pages.' 

Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs, 
To garland vay poetic brows ! 
Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs 

Are whistling thrang, 
An' teach thelanely heights an' howes 

My rustic sang. 



BUKNS'S l^OKMS. 



29 



I'll wander on. wi' tentless heed 
How never-halting moments speed, 
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread ; 

Then, all unknown, 
I'll lay me wi' th' inglorious dead, 

Forgot and gone I 

But why o' death begin a tale ? 

Just now we're living sound and hale, 

Then top and maintop crowd the sail, 

Heave care owre side ! 
And large, before enjoyment's gale, 

Let's tak' the tide. 

This life, sae far's I understand, 
Is an enchanted fairy land, 
Where pleasure is the magic wand, 

That, wielded right, 
Mak's hours, like minutes, hand in hand, 

Dance by fu' light. 

The magic-wand then let us wield ; 
For, ance that five-an-forty's speel'd, 
See crazy, weary, joyless eild, 

Wi' wrinkl'd face, 
Comes hostin', hirplin' owre the field," 

Wi' creepin' pace. 

When ance lifers day draws near the gloamin', 
Then fareweel vacant careless roamin' ; 
An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin', 

An' social noise ; 
An' fareweel dear deluding woman, 

The joy of joys ! 

O Life ! how pleasant in thy morning. 
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning ! 
Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning, 

We frisk away. 
Like school-boys, at th' expected warning, 

To joy and play. 

We wander there, we wander here, 
We eye the rose upon the brier. 
Unmindful that the thorn is near. 

Among the leaves ; 
And though the puny wound appear, 

Short while it grieves. 

Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot. 
For which they never toil'd nor swat ; 
They drink the sweet, and eat the fat. 

But care or pain ; 
And, haply, eye the barren hut 

Wi' high disdain. 

Wi' steady aim, some fortune chase ; 
Keen Hope does every sinew brace ; 
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race. 

And seize the prey : 
Then cannie, in some cozie place, 

They close the day. 

And others, like your humble servan', 
Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin'; 
To right or left, eternal swervin'. 

They zig-zag on ; 
Till curst wi' age, obscure an' starvin', 

They aften groan. 



Alas! what bitter toil an' straining — 
But truce wi' peevish, poor complaining ! 
Is fortune's fickle Luna waning ? 

E'en let her gang ! 
Beneath what light f?he has remaming, 

Let's sing our sang. 

My pen I here fling to the door, 

And kneel, ' Ye Pow'rs ! and warm implore, 

* Tho' I should wander terra o'er, 

In all her climes, 
Grant me but this, I ask no more, 

Ay rowth o' rhymes. 

' Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds. 
Till icicles hing frae their beards ; 
Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards, 

And maids o' honour ; 
And yill an' whiskey gie to cairds, 

Until they sconner. 

' A title, Dempster merits it ; 

A garter gie to Willie Pitt; 

Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit, 

In cent, per cent. 
But gie me real, sterling wit. 

And I'm content. 

' While ye are pleas'd to keep me hale, 
I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, 
Be't water-brose, or muslin-kail, 

Wi' cheerfu' face, 
As lang's the Muses dinna fail 

To say the grace.' 

An anxious e'e I never throw 
Behint my lug, or by my nose ; 
I jouk beneath misfortune's blows 

As weel's I may ; 
Sworn foe to sorrow, care and prose, 

I rhyme away. 

ye douce folk that live by rule, 
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm, and cool, 
Compar'd wi' you — O fool ! fool ! fool ! 

How much unlike ! 
Your hearts are just a stan'ing pool, 

Your lives a dyke ! 

Nae hair-brain'd sentimental traces 
In your unletter'd nameless faces I 
In arioso trills and graces 

Ye never stray, 
But, gravissimo, solemn basses 

Ye hum away. 

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye 're wise; 

Nae ferly tho' ye do despise 

The hairura-scairum, ram-stam boys, 

The rattlin' squad : 

1 see you upward cast your eyes — 

— Ye ken the road. — 

Whilst I — but I shall hand me there — 
Wi' you I'll scarce gang omj where — 
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair. 

But quit my sang, 
Content wi' you to mak' a pair, 

Whare'er I gang. 



30 



BURNS S POEMSJ. 



A DREAM. 



Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames 

with reason ; 
But surly dreams were ne'er indicted treason. 



[On reading, in the public papers, the LaureaVs 
Ode, with the other parade of June 4, 1786, 
the author was no sooner dropt asleep, than 
he imagined himself transported to the birth- 
day levee ; and in his dreaming fancy made 
the following Address.] 

Guid-mornin' to your Majesty ! 

May heav'n augment your blisses, 
On ev'ry new birth-day ye see ; 

A humble poet wishes ! 
My hardship here, at j^our levee, 

On sic a day as this is, 
Is sure an uncouth sight to see, 

Araang the birth-day dresses 
Sae fine this day. 

I see ye're complimented thrang, 

By many a lord and lady 
* God save the king ! 's a cuckoo sang 

That's unco easy said ay ; 
The poets, too, a venal gang, 

Wi' rliymes weel-turned and ready, 
Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang. 

But ay unerring steady, 
On sic a day. 

For me ! before a monarch's face, 

Ev'n there I winna flatter ; 
For neither pension, post nor place. 

Am I your humble debtor ; 
So, nae reflection on your grace, 

Your kingship to bespatter ; 
There's monie waur been o' the race, 

And aiblins ane been better 

Than you this day. 

'Tis very true, my sov'reign king, 

My skill may weel be doubted : 
But facts are chiels that winna ding. 

An' downa be disputed : 
Your royal nest, beneath your wing. 

Is e'en right reft an' clouted, 
And now the third part of the string, 

An' less, will gang about it 

Than did ae day. 

Far be't frae me that I aspire 

To blame your legislation. 
Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire. 

To rule this mighty nation ! 
But faith ! I muckle doubt, my Sire, 

Ye 've trusted ministration 
To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre. 

Wad better fiU'd their station 

Than courts yon day. 

And now ye've gien aiild ^Hfain peace, 

Her broken shins to plaister ; 
Your sair taxation does her fleece, 

Till she has scarce a tester ; 



For me, thank God, my life's a lease, 

Nae bargain wearing faster, 
Or, faith ? I fear, that wi' the geese, 

I shortly boost to pasture 

I' the craft some day. 

I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, 

When taxes he enlarges, 
(An' Will's a true guid fallow's get, 

A name not envy spairges,^ 
That he intends to pay your debt, 

An' lessen a' your charges ; 
But, G-d's-sake ! let nae saving-fit 

Abridge your bonnie barges 

An' boats this day. 

Adieu, my Liege ! may freedom geek 

Beneath your high protection ; 
An' may ye rax corruption's neck. 

And gie her for dissection ! 
But since I'm here, I'll no neglect, 

In loyal, true afiection, 
To pay your Queen, wi' due respect, 

My fealty ah' subjection 

This great birth day. 

Hail, Majesty most Excellent! 

While nobles strive to please ye. 
Will ye accept a compliment 

A simple poet gies ye ? 
The bonnie bairntime, Heav'n has lent. 

Still higher may they heeze ye 
In bliss, till fate some day is sent. 

For ever to release ye 

Frae care that day. 

For you, young potentate o' W , 

I tell your Highness fairly, 
Down pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails, 

I'm tauld ye're driving rarely ; 
But some day ye may gnaw your nails. 

An' curse your folly sairly, 
That e'er ye brak Diana's pales, 

Or rattl'd dice wi' Charlie 

By night or day. 

Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known 

To mak' a noble aiver ; 
So, ye may douncely fill a throne, 

For a' their clishmaclaver : 
There, him* at Agincourt wha shone. 

Few better were or braver ; 
And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John,\ 

He was an unco shaver 

For monie a day. 

For you, right rev'rend Osnaburgh, 

Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, 
Although a ribbon at your lug 

Wad been a dress completer : 
As ye disown yon paughty dog 

That bears the keys of Peter, 
Then, swith ! an' get a wife to hug, 

Or, trouth l^ye'll stain the mitre 
Some luckless day. 



* King Henry V. 

f Sir John Falstaff: vide Shakspeare. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



31 



Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, 

Yc've lately came athwart her ; 
A glorious galley*, stem an' stern, 

Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter ; 
But first hang out, that she'll discern 

Your hymeneal charter, 
Then heave aboard your grapple aim, 

An', large upo' her quarter, 

Come full that day. 

Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a'. 

Ye royal lasses dainty, 
Heav'n male' you guid as weel as braw, 

An' gie you lads a-plenty : 
But sneer nae British Boys awa. 

For kings are unco scant ay ; 
An' German gentles are but sma', 

They're better just than want ay, 
On onie day. 

God bless you a' ! consider now 

Ye're unco muckle dautet ; 
But, ere the course o' life be thro', 

It may be bitter saute t : 
An' I hae seen their coggie f\x\ 

That yet hae tarrow't at it 
But or the day was done, I trow, 

The laggen they hae clautet 

Fu' clean that day. 

* Alluding to the newspaper account of a cer- 
tain royal sailor's amour. 



WINTER. 

A DIRGE. 

The wintry West extends his blast. 

And hail and rain does blaw ; 
Or, the stormy North sends driving forth 

The blinding sleet and snaw : 
While, tumbling brown, the burn comes 
down, 

And roars frae bank to brae ; 
And bird and beast in covert rest. 

And pass the heartless day. 

'' The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast*," 

The joyless winter-day, 
Let others fear, to me more dear 

Than all the pride of May : 
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul. 

My griefs it seems to join; 
The leafless trees my fancy please. 

Their fate resembles mine I 

Thou PowW Supreme^ whose mighty scheme 

These woes of mine fulfil, 
Here, firm, I rest, they must be blest, 

Because they are Thy will ! 
Then all I want (Oh ! do thou grant 

This one request of mine !) 
Since to enjoy thou dost deny, 

Assist me to resign. 

* Dr. Young. 





THE VISION. 



DUAN FIRST*. 



The sun had clos'd the winter day, 
The curlers quat their roaring play, 
An' hunger'd maukin' ta'en her way 

To kail-yards green, 
While faithless snaws ilk step betray 

Whare she has been. 

The thresher's wea,Ty Jlingin-tree 
The lee-lang day had tired me ; 
And when the day had clos'd his e'e, 

Far i' the West, 
Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie, 

I gaed to rest. 

There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, 
I sat and e'ed the spewing reek. 
That fill'd, wi' hoast-provoking smeek. 

The auld clay biggin ; 
An' heard the restless rattons squeak. 

About the riggin. 

All in this mottie, misty clime, 
I backward mus'd on wasted time. 
How I had spent my youthfu' prime, 

An' done nae thing, 
But stringin' blethers up in rhyme, 

For fools to sing. 

Had I to guid advice but harkit, 
I might, by this, hae led a market. 
Or strutted in a bank, an' clarkit 

My cash account : 
While here, half-mad, half fed, half-sarkit, 

Is a' th' amount. 



* Duan, a term of Ossian's for the.;dT8er6nf 
divisions of a digressive poem. Sdlj-'hre-CafA- 
Lodttf vol. ii. of M'Pherson'straiilatioiis. 



I started, mutt'ring, blockhead I coof ! 
And rais'd on high my waukit loof, 
■To swear by a' yon starry roof. 

Or some rash aith, 
That I, henceforth, would be rhyme-proof 

Till my last breath — 

When click ! the string the sneck did draw ; 
And jee ! the door gaed to the wa' ; 
An' by the ingle lowe I saw, 

Now bleezin' bright, 
A tight, outlandish iifiz^it, braw, 

Come full in sight. 

Ye needna doubt, I held my whisht ; 
The infant aith, half-form'd, wascrusht; 
I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dusht 

In some wild glen ; 
When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht, 

And stepped ben. 

Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-houghs 
Were twisted, gracefu', round her brows; 
I took her for some Scottish Muse, 

By that same token ; 
An' come to stop those reckless vows, 

Wou'd soon been broken. 

A ' hair-brain'd, sentimental trace, 
Was strongly marked in her face ; 
A wildly-witty; rustic grace 

Shone full upon her, 
Her eye, e'en turn'd on empty space, 

Beam'd keen with honour. 

Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheene ; 
Till half a leg was scrimply seen ', 
And sic a leg ! my bonnie Jean 

Could only peer it ; 
Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, 

Nane else came near it. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



33 



Her mantle large, of greenish hue, 

My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; 

Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw 

A lustre grand ; 
And seem'd, to my astonish'd view, 

A well known land. 

Here, rivers in the sea were lost ; 
There, mountains to the skies were tost : 
Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast, 

With surging foam ; 
There, distant shone Art's lofty boast. 

The lordly dome. 

Here, Doon pour'd down his far-fetch'd 

floods ; 
There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds : 
Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods, 

On to the shore ; 
And many a lesser torrent scuds, 

With seeming roar. 

Low, in a sandy valley spread, 

An ancient borough rear'd her head j 

Still, as in Scottish story read, 

She boasts a race, 
To ev'ry nobler virtue bred, 

And polished grace. 

By stately tow'r or palace fair. 

Or ruins pendent in the air, 

Bold stems of heroes, here and there, 

I could discern : 
Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare, 

With feature stern. 

My heart did glowing transport feel, 

To see a race* heroic wheel. 

And brandish round the deep-dy'd steel 

In sturdy blows ; 
While back-recoiling seem'd to reel 

Their s'uthern faes. 

His Country's Saviour t mark him well ! 
Bold Richardson's^ heroic swell ; 
The chief on Sark^ who glorious fell, 

In high command ; 
And he whom ruthless fates expel 

His native land. 

There, where a scepter'd Piciish shade [j 
Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, 
I mark'd a martial race, portray'd 

In colours strong ; 

* The Wallaces. f William Wallace. 

\ Adam Wallace, of Richardton, cousin to the 
immortal preserver of Scottish independence. 

5 Wallace, Laird of Craigie, who was second 
in command, under Douglass Earl of Ormond, 
at the famous battle on the banks of Sark, 
fought anno 1448. That glorious victory was 
principally owing to the judicious conduct and 
intrepid valour of the gallant Laird of Craigie, 
who died of his wounds after the action. 

I] Colius, king of the Picts, from whom the dis- 
trict of Kyle is said to take its name, lies buried, 
as tradition says, near the family seat of the 
Montgomeries of CoiPs-field, where his burial- 
place is still shown. 



Bold, soldier featur'd, undiamay'd 

They strode along. 

Thro' many a wild, romantic grove*, 
Near many a hermit-fancy'd cove, 
(Fit haunts for friendship or for love) 

In musing mood, 
An aged Judge, I saw him rove. 

Dispensing good. 

With deep struck reverential awe f 
The learned sire and son I saw. 
To Nature's God an' Nature's law 

They give their lore, 
This, all its source and end to draw, 

That, to adore, 

Brijdone's brave ward % I well could spy, 
Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye ; 
Who call'd on fame, low standing by. 

To hand him on, 
Where many a patriot name on high. 

And hero shone. 

DUAN SECOND. 

With musing-deep, astonish'd stare, 
I view'd the heav'nly-seeming /air; 
A whisp'ring throb did witness bear. 

Of kindred sweet. 
When with an elder sister's air 

She did me greet. 

* All hail ! my own inspired bard ! 
In me thy native muse regard ! 
Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, 

Thus poorly low ! 
I come to give thee such reward 
As we bestow. 

' Know, the great genius of this land 
Has many a light aerial band. 
Who, all beneath his high command, 

Harmoniously, 
As arts or arms they understand, 

Their labours ply. 

' They Scotia^s race among them share ; 
Some fire the soldier on to dare : 
Some rouse the patriot up to bare 

Corruption's heart : 
Some teach the bard, a darling care, 

A tuneful art. 

* 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, 
They, ardent, kindling spirits pour; 
Or, 'mid the venal senate's roar. 

They, sightless, stand. 
To mend the honest patriot lore, 

And grace the land. 

* Barskimming, the seat of the Lord Justice 
Clerk (Miller). 

f Catrine, the seat of the late Doctor and pre- 
sent Professor Stewart. 

} Colonel Fullarton. 



34 



BURNS S POEMS. 



Charm or instruct the future age, 

* And when the bard, or hoary sage, 
They bind the wild poetic rage 

In energy. 
Or point the inconclusive page 

Full on the eye. 

* Hence Fullarton, the brave and young ; 
Hence Dempster^s zeal-inspiring tongue ; 
Hence sweet Harmonious Beattie sung 

His " Minstrel Lays j" 
Or tore, with noble ardour stung. 

The sceptic's bays. 

' To lower orders are assign'd 
The humbler ranks of human kind, 
The rustic Bard, the lab'ring hind, 

The Artisan; 
All chuse, as various they're inclin'd, 

The various man. 

' When yellow waves the heavy grain. 
The threat'ning storm some strongly rein ; 
Some teach to meliorate the plain 

With tillage-skill ; 
And some instruct the shepherd-train, 

Blyth o'er the hill. 

* Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; 
Some grace the maiden's artless smile ; 
Some sooth the lab'rer's weary toil. 

For humble gains, 
And make his cottage-scenes beguile 
His cares and pains. 

* Some bounded to a district-space, 
Explore at large man's infant race, 
To mark the embryotic trace 

Of Rustic Bard ; 
And carefu' note each op'ning grace, 
A guide and guard. 

' Of these am I — Coila my name ; 
And this district as mine I claim. 
Where once the Campbells, cheifs of fame, 

Held ruling pow'r : 
I mark'd thy embryo tunefu' flame, 

Thy natal hour. 

* With future hope, I oft would gaze 
Fond, on thy little early ways. 
Thy rudely caroll'd chiming phrase. 

In uncouth rhymes, 
Fir'd at the simple, artless lays 

Of other times. 

* I saw thee seek the sounding shore, 
Delighted with the dashing roar; 
Or when the north his fleecy store 

Drove thro' the sky, 
I saw grim nature's visage hoar. 

Struck thy young eye. 

* Or when the deep green mantl'd earth 
Warra-cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth. 
And joy and music pouring forth 

In ev'ry grove. 



I saw thee eye the gen'ral mirth 

With boundless love. 

' When ripen'd fields aud azure skies, 
Call'd forth the reaper's rustling noise, 
I saw thee leave their ev'ning joys. 

And lonely stalk, 
To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 

In pensive walk. 

* When youthfu' love, warm-blushing strong 
Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along, 
Those accents grateful to thy tongue, 

Th' adored JVame, 
I taught thee how to pour in song, 

To sooth thy flame. 

* I saw thy pulse's raad'ning play. 
Wild send thee pleasure's devious way, 
Misled by fancy's meteor ray, 

By passion driven j 
But yet the light that led astray 

Was light from heaven. 

' I taught thy manners-painting strains, 
The loves, the ways of simple swains. 
Till, now, o'er all my wide domains . 

Thy fame extends; 
And some, the pride of Coila' s plains, 

Become thy friends. 

' Thou canst not learn, nor can I show. 
To paint with Thomson's landscape-glow; 
Or wake the bosom-melting throe. 

With Shenstone's art; 
Or pour, with Gray, the moving glow 

Warm on the heart. 

'Yet all beneath th' unrivall'd rose, 

The lowly daisy sweetly blows; 

Tho' large the forest's monarch throws 

His army shade. 
Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, 

Adown the gJade. 

' Then never murmur nor repine ; 
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine ; 
And trust me, not Potosi's mine. 

Nor king's regard, 
Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, 

A rustic Bard. 

'To give my counsels all in one, 
Thy tuneful flame still carefu' fan : 
Preserve the Dignity of Man, 

With soul erect; 
And trust, iheUniversal Plan 

Will all protect. 

* £nd wear thou this' — she solemn said. 
And bound the holly round my head : 
The polish'd leaves and berries red. 

Did rustling play ; 
And like a passing thought, she fled 
In light away. 



BURNS'S POEMS, 



35 



ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID ; 



OR 



THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. 



My son, these maxims make a rule, 

And lump them ay thegither ; 
The Rigid Righteous is a fool. 

The Rigid Wise anither: 
The cleanest coin that e'er was dight 

May hae some pyles o' caff in : 
Sae ne'er a fellow-creature slight 

For random fits o' daffin. 

Solomon. — Eccles. oh. vii. ver. 16. 



O ye wha are sae guid yoursel', 

Sae pious and sae holy, 
Ye've nought to do but mark and tell 

Your neebour's faults and folly ; 
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, 

Suppli'd wi' store o' water, 
The heapit happer's ebbing still, 

And still the clap plays clatter. 

Hear me, ye venerable core, 

As counsel for poor mortals ; 
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door, 

For glaikit Folly's portals; 
T for their thoughtless, careless sakes, 

Wau'd here propone defences. 
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, 

Their failings and mischances. 

Ye see your state wi' their's compar'd, 

And shudder at the niffer, 
But cast a moment's fair regard. 

What mail's the mighty differ ; 
Discount^ what scant occasion gave 

That purity ye pride in. 
And ( what's aft mair than a' the lave ) 

Your better art o' hidin'. 

Think, when your castigated pulse 

Gies now and then a wallop, 
What raging must his veins convulse. 

That still eternal gallop : 
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail. 

Right on ye scud your sea-way ; 
But in the teeth o' baith to sail , 

It mak's an unco lee-way. 

See social life and glee sit down 

All joyous and unthinking. 
Till, quite transmugrify'd they're grown 

Debauchery and drinking : 
O, would they stay to calculate 

Th' eternal consequences ; 
Or your more dreaded hell to state, 

Damnation of expences ! 

Ye high exhalted, virtuous dames, 

Ty'd up in godly laces, 
Before ye gie ]iOor frailty names. 

Suppose a change o' cases ; 
A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug, 

A treacherous inclination — 
But, let me whisper i' your lug, 

Y^'re aiblins nae temptation. 



Then gently scan your brother man, 

Still gentler sister woman; 
Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang, 

To step aside is human : 
One point must still be greatly dark, 

The moving why they do it : 
And just as lamely can ye mark,. 

How far perhaps they rue it. 

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try us. 
He knows each chord — its various tone, 

Each spring — its various bias : 
Then at the balance let's be mute, 

We never can adjust it; 
What's done we partly may compute. 

But know not what's resisted. 



TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY*. 



An honest man's the noblest work of God. 

Pope. 



Has auld K******* seen the Deil ? 
Or great M' ***** t thrawn his heel? 
OrK******t again grown weel, 

To preach an' read ? 
* Na, waUr than a' !' cries ilka chiel, 

* Tarn Samson '5 dead !' 

K******* lang may grunt an' grane, 
An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane, 
An' deed her bairns, man, wife, an' wean, 

In mourning weed ; 
To death, she's dearly paid the kai>e, 

Tarn Samson 's dead ! 

The brethren of the mystic level 
May hing their heads in waefu' bevel. 
While by their nose the tears will revel 

Like ony bead. 
Death's gien the lodge an unco devel : 

Tam Samson 's dead ! 

When winter muffles up his cloak, 
And binds the mire like a rock ; 
When to the lochs the curlers flock 

Wi' gleesome speed, 
Wha will they station at the cock ? 

Tam Samson 's dead ! 

He was the king o' a' the core. 
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore. 



* When this worthy old sportsman went out 
last muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, 
in Ossian's phrase, Mhe last of his fields; and ex- 
pressed an ardent wish to die and be buried in 
the muirs. On this hint the author composed his 
elegy and epitaph. 

f A certain preacher, a great favourite with 
the million. Vide the Ordination, stanza II. 

I Another preacher, an equal favourite with 
the few, who was at that time ailing. For him» 
see also the Ordination, stanxa IX. 



36 



BURNS S POEMS. 



Or up the rink like Jehu roar 

In time of need ; 

But now he lags on death's hog scores 
Tam Samson 's dead ! 

Now safe the stately sawmont sail, 
And trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson hail, 
And eels weel ken'd for souple tail, 

And geds for greed, 
Sin' dark in death's ^sA-creeZ we wail 

Tam Samson dead! 

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a' ; 
Ye cootie muireocks, crousely craw; 
Ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw, 

Withouten dread ; 
Your mortal fae is now awa, 

Tam Samson 's dead ! 

That waefu morn be ever mourn'd, 
Saw him in shootin' graith adorn'd, 
While pointers round impatient burn'd, 

Frae couples freed ; 
But, och ! he gaed and ne'er return'd ! 

Tam Samson 's dead ! 

In vain auld age his body batters ; 

In vain the gout his ancles fetters ; 

In vain the burns came down like waters, 

An acre braid ! 
Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin', clatters, 

Tam Samson 's dead ! 

Owre mony a weary hag he limpit, 
An ay the tither shot he thumpit, 
Till coward death behind him jumpit 

Wi' deadly feide ; 
Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet, 

Tam Samson 's dead ! 

When at his heart he felt the dagger, 
He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger, 
But yet he drew the mortal trigger 

Wi' weel-aim'd heed ; 
* L — d, five !' he cry'd, an' owre did stagger ; 

Tam Samson 's dead ! 



Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither ; 
Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father ; 
Yon auld gray stane, amang the heather, 

Marks out his head, 
Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether, 

* Tam Samson 's dead /' 

There low he lies, in lasting rest ; 
Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast 
Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest, 

To.hatch an' breed j 
Alas ! nae mair he'll them molest ! 

Tam Samson^'s dead ! 

When August winds the heather wave, 
And sportsmen wander by yon grave, 
Three vollies let his mem'ry crave 

O' pouth'r an' lead. 
Till Echo answer frae her cave, 

Tam Samson 's dead ! 

Heav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be ! 
Is th' wish o' mony mae than me ; 
He had twa faults, or maybe three. 

Yet what remead ? 
Ae social honest man want we : 

Tam Samson 's dead ! 



THE EPITAPH. 

Tam Samson's weel-worn clay here lies, 

Ye canting zealots, spare him ! 
If honest worth in heaven rise, 

Ye'll mend e'er ye win' near him. 

PER CONTRA. 

Go, fame, an' canter like a filly 

Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' Killie*, 

Tell every social, honest billie 

To cease his grievin', 
For yet, unskaith'd by death's gleg gullie, 

Tam Samson 's livin\ 

* Killie is a phrase the country-folks some- 
times use for Kilmarnock. 





HALLOWEEN* 



{The following poem will, by many readers, be 
well enough understood ; but for the sake of 
those who are unacquainted with the manners 
and traditions of the country where the scene 
is cast, notes are added, to give some account 
of the principal charms and spells of that night, 
so big with prophecy to the peasantry of the 
West of Scotland. The passion of prying in- 
to futurity makes a striking part of the history 
ol" human nature in its rude state, in all ages 
and nations ; and it may be some entertainment 
to a philosophic mind (if any such should 
honour the author with a perusal,) to see the 
remains of it, among the more unenlightened 
in our own,] 



Yes ! let the rich deride, with proud disdain, 
The simple pleasures of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One^native charm than all the gloss of art. 

Goldsmith. 



Upon that night, when fairies light 
On Cassilis Downans] dance, 

Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, 
On sprightly coursers prance ; 

Or for Colean the route is ta'en, 
Beneath the moon's pale beams ; 

* Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, 
and other mischief-making beings, are all abroad 
on their baneful, midnight errands ; particularly 
those aerial people, the fairies, are said on that 
night to hold a grand anniversary. 

f Certain little, romantic, rocky, green hills, 
in the neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the 
Earls of Cassilis. 



There, up the cove*, to stray an' rove 
Amang the rocks and streams 

To sport that night, 

Amang the bonnie winding banks 

Where Doon rins, whimplin', clear, 
Where Bruce t ance rul'd the martial ranks, 

An' shook his Carrick spear, 
Some merry, friendly kintra folks, 

Together did convene, 
To burn their nits, an pou their stocks, 

An' baud their Halloween 

Fu' blyth that night. 

The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat, 

Mair braw than when they're fine ; 
Their faces blyth, fu' sweetly kythe, 

Hearts leal, an' warm, an' kin' : 
The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs, 

Weel knotted on their garten, 
Some unco blate, an' some wi' gabs, 

Gar lasses' hearts gang startin* 

Whyles fast that night. 

Then first and foremost, thro' the kail, 
Their stocks^ maun a' be sought ance ; 



* A noted cavern near Colean-house, called 
the Cove of Colean ; which, as Cassilis Downans, 
is famed in country story for being a favourite 
haunt of fairies. 

f The famous family of that name, the an- 
cestors of Robert, the great deliverer of his coun- 
try, were Earls of Carrick. 

JThe first ceremony of Halloween is, pulling 
each a stock, or plant of kail. They must go 
out, hand in hand, with eyes shut, and pull the 
first they meet with : its being big or little, straight 
or crooked, is prophetic of the size and shape of 
the grand object of all their spells— the husband 
or wife. If any yird, or earth, stick to the root, 



38 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



They steek their een, an' graip an' wale, 
For muckle anes, an' straught anes. 

Poor hav'rel Will fell aff the drift, 
An' wander'd thro' the bow-kail, 

An' pow't, for want o' better shift, 
A runt was like a sow tail, 

Sae bow't that night. 

Then, straught, or crooked, yird or nane, 

They roar an' cry a' throu'ther ; 
The vera wee things, todlin', rin 

Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther ; 
An' gif the custoc's sweet or sour, 

Wi' joctelegs they taste them j 
Syne coziely, aboon the door, 

Wi' cannie care they place them 
To lie that night. 

The lasses staw frae' mang them a' 

To pou their stalks o' corn* ; 
But Rab slips out, an' jinks about, 

Behint the muckle thorn : 
He grippet Nelly hard an' fast ; 

Loud skirl'd a' the lasses ; 
But her tap-pickle maist was lost, 

When kittlin' in the fause -house t 
Wi' him that night. 

The auld guidwife's weel-hoorded nitst 

Are round and round divided, 
An' monie lads' and lasses' fates 

Are there that night decided : 
Some kindle couthie, side by side, 

An' burn thegither trimly ; 
Some start awa wi' saucy pride, 

And jump out-owre the chimlie 

Fu' high that night. 

Jean slips in twa, wi' tentie e'e ; 
Wha 'twas, she wadna tell ; 



tbat is foc^er, or fortune; and the taste of the 
'custoc, that is, the heart of the stem, is indicative 
■of the natural temper and disposition. Lastly, 
the stems, or, to give them their ordinary appel- 
lation, the runts, are placed somewhere above 
the head of the door : and the christian names of 
ithe people whom chance brings into the house, 
are, according to the priority of placing the runts, 
the names in question. 

* They go to the barn-yard, and pull each, at 
three several times, a stalk of oats. If the third 
stalk wants the top-pickle, that is, the grain at 
the top of the stalk, the party in question will 
come to the marriage-bed any thing but a maid. 

f When the corn is in a doutful state, by being 
too green, or wet, the stack-builder, by means of 
old timber, &c. makes a large apartment in his 
stack, with an opening in the side which is fair- 
est exposed to the wind : this he calls a fause- 
house. 

X Burning the nuts is a famous charm. They 
name the lad and lass to each particular nut, as 
they lay them in the fire, and accordingly as they 
burn quietly together, or start from beside one 
another, the course and issue of the courtship 
•will be. 



But this is Jock, and this is me, 

She says in to hersel' : 
He bleez'd owre her, an' she owre him, 

As they wad never mair part ; 
Till fuflf ! he started up the lura. 

An' Jean had e'en a sair heart 

To see't that night. 

Poor Willie, wi' his how-kail runt, 

Was brunt wi' primsie Mai lie. 
An' Mallie, nae doubt, took the drunt. 

To be compar'd to Willie : 
Mall's nit lap out wi' pridefu' fling. 

An' her ain fit it brunt it; 
While Willie lap, an' swore hv jing, 

'Twas just the way he wanted 

To be that night. 

Nell had the fause-house in her min', 

She pits hersel' an' Rob in ; 
In loving bleeze they sweetly join. 

Till white in ase they're sobbin', 
Nell's heart was dancin' at the view. 

She whisper'd Rob to leuk for't : 
Rob, stowlins, prie'd her bonnie mou, 

Fu' cozie in the neuk for't. 

Unseen that night. 

But Merran sat behint their backs. 

Her thoughts on Andrew Bell : 
She lea'es them gashing at their cracks, 

And slips out by hersel' : 
She thro' the yard the nearest tak's, 

An' to the kiln she gaes then, 
An' darklins grapit for the banks. 

And in the blue-clue* throws then, 

Right fear't that night. 

An' ay she win't, an' ay she swat, 

I wat she made nae jauking ; 
Till something held within the pat, 

Guid L — d ! but she was quakin' ! 
But whether 'twas the deil himsel', 

Or whether 'twas a bauk-en', 
Or whether it was Andrew Bell, 

She didna wait on talkin' 

To spier that night. 

Wee Jennie to her Grannie says, 
* Will ye go wi' me, grannie .-* 

I'll eat the apple] at the glass, 
I gat frae uncle Johnie : 



* Whoever would, with success, try this spell, 
must strictly observe these directions : Steal out, 
all alone, to the kiln, and, darkling, throw into 
the pot a clue of blue yarn; wind it in a new 
clue off the old one; and, towards the latter end, 
something will hold the thread ; demand, wha 
hands? i. e. who holds? an answer will be re- 
turned from the kiln-pot, by naming the christian 
and surname of your future spouse. 

t Take a candle, and go alone to a looking- 
glass; eat an apple before it, and some traditions 
say, you should comb your hair all the time ; the 
face of your conjngal companion, to be, will be 
seen in the glass, as if peeping over your shoulder. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



39 



She fufft her pipe wi' sic a lunt, 
In wrath she was so vap'rin', 

She notic't na, an aizle brunt 
Her braw new worset-apron 

Out-thro' that night. 

*ye little skelpie-limmer's face ! 

How dare you try sic sportin', 
As seek the foul Thief ony place, 

For him to spae your fortune ? 
Nae doubt but ye may get a sight ! 

Great cause ye hae to fear it ; 
For raonie a ane has gotten a fright, 

An' liv'd an' di'd deleeret 

On sic a night. 

* Ae hairst afore the Sherra-muir, 

I mind't as weel's yestreen, 
I was a gilpey then, I'm sure 

I wasna past fifteen : 
The simmer had been cauld an' wat, 

An' stuff was unco green ; 
An' ay a rantin' kirn we gat, 

An' just on Halloween 

It fell that night. 

* Our stibble-rig was Rab M'Graen, 

A clever, sturdy fallow ; 
His sin gat Eppie Sim wi' wean. 

That liv'd in Achmacalla : 
He gat hemp-see<P J I mind it weel. 

An' he made unco light o't ; 
But monie a day was by himseV, 

He was sae sairly frighted 

That vera night.' 

Then up gat fechtin' Jamie Fleck, 

An' he swoor by his conscience, 
That he could saw hemp-seed a peck ; 

For it was a' but nonsense, 
The auld guidman r aught down the pock,. 

An out a handfu' gied him ; 
Syne bad him slip frae 'mang the folk, 

Sometime when nae ane see'd him, 
An' try't that night. 

He marches thro' amang the stacks, 

Tho' he was something sturtin' ; 
The graip he for a harrow taks', 

An' haurls't at his curpin : 
An' every now an' then he says, 

* Hemp-seed I saw thee, 
An' her that is to be my lass, 

Come after me, and draw thee. 

As fast this night.' 

* Steal out unperceived, and sow a handful 
of hemp-seed ; harrowing it with any thing you 
can conveniently draw after you. Repeat now 
and then, 'hemp-seed, I saw thee, hemp-seed, I 
saw thee ; and him (or her) that is to be my true 
love, come after me and pou thee.' Look over 
your left shoulder, and you will see the appear- 
ance of the person invoked, in the attitude of 
pulling hemp. Some traditions say, 'come after 
me. and shaw thee,' that is, show thyself : in 
which case it simply appears. Others omit the 
harrowing, and say, 'come after me and harrow 
thee.' 



He whistl'd up Lord Lenox's march 

To keep his courage cheery ; 
Altho' his hair began to arch. 

He was sae fley'd an' eerie : 
Till presently he hears a squeak. 

An' then a grain an' gruntle ; 
He by his shouther gae a keek, 

An' tumbl'd wi' a wintle 

Out-owre that night, 

He roar'd a horrid murder-shout. 

In dreadfu' desperation ! 
An' young an' auld came rinnin' out 

To hear the sad narration : 
He swoor 'twas hilchin Jean M'Craw, 

Or crouchie Merran Humphie, 
Till stop ! she trotted thro' them a' j 

An' wha was it but Grumphie 

Asteer that night. 

Meg fain wad to the barn gane 

To imn three wechts o' naething* ; 
But for to meet the deil her lane. 

She pat but little faith in : 
She gies the herd a pickle nits. 

And twa red-cheekit apples. 
To watch, while for the barn she sets,. 

In hopes to see Tam Kipples 

That vera night. 

She turns the key wi* cannie thraw, 

An' owre the threshold ventures ; 
But first on Sawnie gies a ca'. 

Syne bauldly in she enters ; 
A rattan rattled up the wa'. 

An' she cried, L — d preserve her ! 
An' ran thro' midden-hole an' a', 

An' pray'd wi' zeal an' fervour, 

Fu' fast that night. 

They hoy^'t out Will, wi' sair advice ; 

They flecht him some fine braw ane j. 
It chanc'd the stack he faddom'd thricef 

Was timmer-propt for thrawin' : 
He taks a swirlie auld moss-oak, 

For some black, grousome carlin' ; 
An' loot a winze, an' drew a stroke. 

Till skin in blypes came haurlin' 

Aff's nieves that night. 

* This charm must likewise be performed un* 
perceived, and alone. You go to the barn, and- 
open both doors, taking them off the hinges, if 
possible ; for there is danger that the being about 
to appear, may shut the doors, and do you some 
mischief. Then take that instrument used in win- 
nowing the corn,which, in our country dialect, we 
call a wecht ; and go through all the attitudes of 
letting down corn against the wind. Repeat it 
three times; and the third time an apparitiofl 
will pass through the barn, in at the windy door, 
and out at the other, having both the figure in 
question, and the appearance or retinue, mark- 
ing the employment, or station in life. 

f Take an opportunity of going, unnoticed, to 
a Bear-stack, and fathom it three times round. 
The last fathom of the last time, you will catch 
in your arms the appearance of your future con- 
jugal yoke-fellow. 



40 



BURNS S POEMS. 



A wanton widow Leezie was, 

As cantie as a kittlen ; 
But och ! that night, among the shaws, 

She got a fearfu' settlin' ! 
She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn, 

An' owre the hill gaed scrievin', 
Whare three lairds' lands met at a burn*, 

To dip her white sark-sleeve in, 

Was bent that night. 

Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays. 

As thro' the glen it wimpl'd ; 
Whyles round a rocky scar it strays ; 

Whyles in a well it dimpl't ; 
Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 
Whyles cookit underneath the braes, 

Below the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night. 

Amang the brachens, on the brae, 

Between her an' the moon. 
The deil, or else an outler quey. 

Gat up an' gae a croon : 
Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool ; 

Near lav'rock height she jurapit. 
But mis'd a fit, an' in the pool 

Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, 

Wi' a plunge that night. 

In order, on the clean hearth-stane. 

The luggies threet are ranged. 
And every time great care is ta'en. 

To see them duly changed : 
Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys 

Sin Mar^s year did desire. 
Because he gat the toom dish thrice, 

He heav'd them on the fire 

In wrath that night. 

Wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks, 

I wat they didna weary ; 
An' unco tales, an' funny jokes. 

Their sports were cheap an' cheery ; 
Till buttered sow^ns, wi' fragrant lunt, 

Set a' their gabs a steerin' ; 
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt. 

They parted aflf careerin' 

Fu' blythe that night. 

* Yoii go out, one or more (for this is a social 
spell), to a south running spring or rivulet, where 
' three lairds' lands meet,' and dip your left shirt 
sleeve. Go to bed in sight of a fire, and hang 
your wet sleeve before it to dry. Lie awake ; 
and some time near midnight, an apparition, 
having the exact figure of the grand object in 
queston, will come and turn the sleeve, as if to 
dry the other side of it. 

t Take three dishes ; put clean water in one, 
foul water in another, leave the third empty : 
blindfold a person, and lead him to the hearth 
where the dishes are ranged ; he (or she) dips the 
left hand : if by chance in the clean water, the 
future husband or wife will come to the bar of 
raatrimony a maid : if in the foul, a widow : if 
in the empty dish, it foretels, with equal certain- 



TO A MOUSE. 

On turning her up in her J^est with the 
Plough, November, 1785. 

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin' tim'rous beastie, 
O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
Thou needna' start awa so hasty, 

Wi' bickering brattle ! 
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 

Wi' murdering j>c«Ze .' 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken natures social union, 
An' justifies that ill opinion, 

Which mak's thee startle 
At me, thy poor earth-born companion, 

An' fellow-mortal ! 

I doubtna, whyles, but thou may thieve ; 
What then .? poor beastie, thou maun live ! 
A daimen-icker in a throve 's 

A sma' request : 
I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, 

And never miss't ! 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin' ! 
An' nacthing, now, to big a new ane, 

O' foggage green ! 
An' bleak December's winds ensuin' 

Baith snell an' keen ! 

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, 
An' weary winter comin' fast, 
An' cozie here, beneath the blast, 

Thou thought to dwell, 
Till crash ! the cruel coulter past, 

Gut-thro' thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, 
Has cost thee many a weary nibble ! 
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble. 

But house or hald, 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 

An' cranreuch cauld i 

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane. 
In proving foresight may be vain : 
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men, 

Gang aft a-gley, 
An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain. 

For promis'd joy. 

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me ! 
The present only toucheth thee : 
But, och ! I backward cast my e'e 

On prospects drear ! 
An' forward, tho' I canna see, 

1 guess aji' fear. 

ty, no marriage at all. It is repeated three times, 
and every time the arrangement of the dishes 
is altered. 

I Sowens, with butter and milk to them, is 
always the Halloween Supper. 



BUR^^S S POEMS. 



41 



THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 

A Cantata. 

RECITATIVO. 

When lyart leaves bestrew the yird, 
Or, wavering like the bauckie* bird, 

Bedim cold Boreas' blast : 
When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte, 
And infant frosts begin to bite, 

In hoary cranreugh drest ; 
Ae night, at e'en, a merry core 

C randie gangrel bodies. 
In Poosie-Nannie's held the splore, 
To drink their orra daddies : 
Wi' quaffin' and laughin', 

They ranted and they sang ; 
Wi' jumpin' and thumpin' 
The vera girdle rang. 

First niest the fire, in auld red rags, 
Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags, 

And knapsack a' in order; 
His doxy lay within his arm, 
Wi' usqueba' and blankets warm, 

She blinket on her sodger ; 
And ay he gies the tousie drab 

The tilher skelpiu kis», 
While she held up her greedy gab, 
Just like an a'mous dish ; 

Ilk smack still, did crack still, 

Just like a cadger's whup, 
Then staggerin', and swaggerin*. 
He roar'd this ditty up — 

AIR, 

Tune, — ' Soldier's Joy.' 

I am a son of Mars, who have been in many 

wars, 
And show my cuts and scars wherever I 

come ; 
This here was for a wench, and that other 

in a trench. 
When welcoming the French at the sound 

of the drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c. 

My 'prenticeship I past where my leader 

breath'd his last, 
When the bloody die was cast on the heights 

of Abram ; 
I served out my trade when the gallant game 

was play'd, 
And the Moro low was laid at the sound of 

the drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c. 

I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating 

batt'ries. 
And there I left for tvitnesses, an arm and 

a limb : 
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to 

head me, 
I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of the 

drum 

Lai de dandle, &c. 

* The old Scottish name for the Bat. 

6 



And now, tho' I must beg, with a wooden 

arm and leg, 
And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my 

bum, 
I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle and 

my callet, 
As when I us'd in scarlet to follow the drum. 
Lai de daudle, &c. 

What tho' with hoary locks, I must stand 

the wintry shocks, 
Beneath the woods and rocks, oftentimes for 

a home ; 
When the tother bag I sell, and the tother 

bottle tell, 
I could meet a troop of hell at the sound of 

the drum. 

RECITATIVO. 

He ended ; and the kebars sheuk 

Aboon the chorus roar ; 
While frighted rattans backward leuk ; 

And seek the benmost bore : 
A fairy fiddler frae the neuk. 

He skir'd out encore I 
But up arose the martial's chuck, 

And laid the loud uproar. 

AIR. 

Tune, — ' Soldier Laddie.* 

I once was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when, 
And still my delight is in proper young men j 
Some one of a troop of dragoons was my 

daddie, 
No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lai de lal, &c. 

The first of my loves was a swaggeringblade. 
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ; 
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so 

ruddy, 
Transported I was with my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, &.c. 

But the goodly old chaplain left him in the 

lurch, 
So the sword I forsook for the sake of the 

church, 
He ventured the soul, and I risked the body, 
'Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

Full soon I grew sick of the sanctified sot, 
The regiment at large for a husband I got ; 
From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was 

ready, 
I asked no more but a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in despair, 
Till I met my old boy at a Cunningham fair, 
His ra^s regimental they flutter'd sae gaudy. 
My heart it rejoiced at my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

And now I have lived — I know not how long. 
And still I can join in a cup or a song ; 



42 



BURNS S POEMS. 



But whilst with both hands I can hold the 

glass steady, 
Here's to thee, ray hero, my sodger laddie. 
Sing^ Lai de lal, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

Poor Merry Andrew, in the neuk 

Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler hizzie : 
They mind't na wha the chorus took. 

Between themselves they were sae busy ; 
At length, wi' drink and courting dizzy. 

He stoiter'd up and made a face ; 
Then turn'd and laid a smack on Grizzy, 

Syne tun'd his pipes wi' grave grimace. 

AIR. 

Tune, — ' Jluld Sir Symon.' 

Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou, 
Sir Knave is a fool in a session ; 

He's there but a 'prentice I trow, 
But I am a fool by profession. 

My grannie she bought me a beuk, 
And I held awa to the school ; 

I fear I my talent misteuk ; 
But what will ye hae of a fool ? 

For drink I would venture my neck ; 

A hizzie's the half o' my craft ; 
But what could ye other expect 

Of ane that's avowedly daft .-* 

I ance was ty'd up like a stirk. 

For civilly swearing and quaffing ; 

I ance was abus'd i' the kirk, 
For towzling a lass 1' my daffin'. 

Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport, 
Let naebody name wi' a jeer ; 

There's ev'n I'm tauld i' the court, 
A tumbler ca'd the Premier. 

Observ'd ye yon reverend lad 
Mak's faces to tickle ihe mob ? 

He rails at our mountebank squad, 
It's rivalship just i' the job ; 

And now my conclusion I'll tell, 
For faith I'm confoundedly dry, 

The chiel that's a fool for himsel' 
Gude L — d, is far dafter than I. 

RECITATIVO. 

Then niest outspak' a raucle carlin, 
Wha kent fu' weel to cleek the sterling. 
For monie a pursie she had hooked, 
An' had in monie a well been douked ; 
Her dove had been a Highland laddie. 
But weary fa, the waefu' woodie ! 
Wi' sighs and sabs she thus began 
To wail her braw John Highlandman : 

AIR. 

Tune, — ' 0, ari' ye were dead, gudeman.' 

A Highland lad my love was born, 
The Lawland lads he held in scorn ; 



But he still was faithfu' to his clan, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 

CHORUS. 

Sing, hey, my hraw John Highlandman! 
Sing, ho, my braw John Highlandman! 
There's no a lad in a' the Ian* 
Was match for my John Highlandman. 

With his philibeg and tartan plaid. 
And guid claymore down by his side, 
The ladies' hearts he did trepan, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, &c. 

We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, 
And liv'd like lords and ladies gay ; 
For a Lawlan' face he feared nane. 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

They banished him beyond the sea, 
But ere the bud was on the tree, 
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran. 
Embracing my John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, &c. 

But, oh ! they catched him at last. 
And bound him in a dungeon fast ; 
My curse upon them every one, 
They've hang'd my braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

And now a widow, I must mourn 
The pleasures that will ne'er return ; 
No comfort but a hearty can. 
When I think on John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

A pigmy scraper wi' his fiddle, 

Wha us'd at trysts and fairs to driddle, 

Her strappin' limb and gaucie middle 

(He reach'd nae higher), 
Had hol'd his heartie like a riddle. 

And blawn't on fire. 

Wi' hand on haunch, and upward e'e, 
He croon'd his gamut ane, twa, three, 
Then in an Ariosa key. 

The wee Apollo 
Set affwi' Allegretto glee. 

His giga solo. 

AIR. 

Tune, — ' Whistle o'er the lave o't.' 

Let me ryke up to dight that tear, 
And go wi' me and be my dear, 
And then your every care and fear 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 

chorus. 
I am a fiddler to my trade. 
And a' the tunes that e'er I play' d, 
The sioeetest still to wife or maid, 
Was whistle o'er the lave o't. 

At kirns and weddings we'se be there. 
And oh ! sae nicely's we will fare ; 



BURNS S POEMS. 



43 



We'll bouse about till Daddie Care 
Sings whistle owre the lave o't. 

/ am, &c. 

Sae merrily's the banes wee'l pyke, 
And sun oursels about the dyke, 
And at our leisure, when ye like, 
We'll whistle owre the lave o't. 

J am, &c. 

But bless me wi' your heav'n o' charms, 
And while I kittle hair on thairms. 
Hunger, cauld, and a' sic harms. 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 

/ am, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

Her charms had struck a sturdy Caird, 

As well as poor Gut-scraper ; 
He tak's the fiddler by tlie beard. 

And draws a roosty rapier — 
He swoor, by a' was swearing worth. 

To spit him like a pliver, 
Unless he wad frae that time forth 

Relinquish her for ever. 

Wi' ghastly e'e, poor tweedle-dee 

Upon his hunkers bended, 
And pray'd for grace, wi' ruefu' face, 

And sae the quarrel ended. 
But tho' his little heart did grieve 

When round the tinker prest her, 
He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve, 

When thus the Caird address'd her : 

AIR. 

Tune, — ' Clout the Cauldron.' 

My bonnie lass, I work in brasS; 

A tinkler is ray station ; 
I've travell'd round all Christian ground 

In this my occupation ; 
I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroll'd 

In many a noble squadron ; 
But vain they search'd, when off I march'd 

To go and clout the cauldron. 

I've ta'en the gold, &c. 

Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, 

Wi' a' his noise and caprin', 
And tak' a share wi' those that bear 

The budget and the apron ; 
And by that stoup, my faith an' houp. 

And by that dear Kilbagie,* 
If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, 

May I ne'er weet my cragie. 

And by that stoup, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

The Caird prevail'd — th' unblushing fair 

In his embraces sunk, 
Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair, 

And partly she was drunk. 
Sir Violino, with an air 

That show'd a man o' spunk, 

* A peculiar sort of whiskey so called ; a great 
favourite with Poosie-Nannie's clubs. 



Wish'd unison between the pair, 
And made the bottle clunk 

To their health that night. 

But hurchin' Cupid shot a shaft 

That play'd a dame a shavie. 
The fiddler rak'd her fore and aft, 

Behint the chicken cavie. 
Her lord, a wight o' Homer's* craft, 

Tho' limping wi' the spavie, 
He hirpld up, and lap like daft, 

And shor'd them Dainty Davie 

O boot that night. 

He was a care defying-blade 

As ever Bacchus listed, 
Tho' fortune sair upon him laid. 

His heart she ever miss'd it. 
He had nae wish, but — to be glad, 

Nor want — but when he thirsted ; 
He hated nought but — to be sad, 

And thus the Muse suggested 

His sang that night. 

AIR. 

Tune, — ' For a' that, and a' that.' 

1 am a bard of no regard 

Wi' gentlefolks and a' that ; 
But Homer-like, the glowran byke^ 

Frae town to town I draw that. 

CHORUS. 

For a' that, and a' that, 

And twice as muckle's a' that ; 

Fve lost hut ane, I've twa behin', 
Fve wife enough for a' that. 

I never drank the Muses' stank, 

Castalia's burn, and a' that ; 
But there it streams, and richly reams, 

My Helicon I ca' that ; 

For a' that, &c. 

Great love I bear, to a' the fair, 
Their humble slave and a' that ; 

But lordly will, I hold it still 
A mortal sin to thraw that. 

For a' that, &c. 

In raptures sweet this hour we meet, 
Wi' mutual love, and a' that ; 

But for how lang the flee may stang, 
Let inclination law that. 

For a' that, &c. 

Their tricks and craft hae put me daft, 
They've ta'en me in, an' a' that ; 

But clear your decks, and " Here's the 
sex!" 
I like the jads for a' that. 

For a' that, and a' that. 

And twice as muckle's a' that, 

My dearest bluid, to do them guid, 
They're welcome till'tfor a' that. 

* Homer is allowed to be the oldest ballad- 
singer on record. 



44 



BURxNS a$ P0I:MS. 



RECITATirO. 

So sung the bard — and Nannie's wa's 
Shook with a thunder of applause, 

Re-echo'd from each mouth ; 
They toom'd their pocks, and pawn'd their 

duds. 
They scarcely left to co'er their fuds, 

To quench their lowin drouth. 

Then owre again the jovial thrang 

The poet did request. 
To lowse his pack, and wale a sang, 
A ballad o' the best ; 
He, rising, rejoicing, 

Between his twa Deborahs, 
Looks round him, and found them 
Impatient for the chorus. 

AIR. 

Tone, — ^ Jolly Mortals fill your Glasses.^ 

See the smoking bowl before us, 

Mark our jovial ragged ring ; 
Round and round take up the chorus,, 

And in raptures let us sing : 

CHORUS. 

A fig for those by law protected! 
Liberty's a glorious feast! 



Courts for eoicards were erected, 
Churches built to please the priest. 

What is title ? What is treasure .•* 

What is reputation's care ? 
If we lead a life of pleasure, 

'Tis no matter, how or where ! 

A fig, &c. 

With the ready trick and fable, 
Round we wander all the day ; 

And at night, in barn or stable. 
Hug our doxies on the hay. 

A fig, &c. 

Does the train-attended carriage 
Thro' the country lighter rove ? 

Does the sober bed of marriage 
Witness brighter scenes of love ? 

A fig, A'c. 

Life is all a variorum. 

We regard not how it goes ; 
Let them cant about decorum 

Who have characters to lose. 

A fig, &c. 

Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets ! 

Here's to all the wandering train ! 
Here's our ragged brats and callets ! 

One and all cry out. Amen ! 

A fig, &c 




-•■ifFMtyi^rAVirvv 







THE AULD farmer's 

KEW-YEAR MORJVIJVG'S SALUTATION 

TO 

HIS AULD MARE MAGGIE, 

On giving her the accustomed Ripp of Corn, 
to hansel in the JVeiC' Year. 

A guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie ! 
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie : 
Tho' thou's howe-backit, now. an' knaggie, 

I've seen the day. 
Thou could hae gane like ony staggie 

Out-owre the lay. 

Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy, 
An' thy auld hide's as white's a daisy, 
I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, and glaizie, 

A bonnie gray : 
He should been tight that daur't to raise thee, 

Ance in a day. 

Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, 
A filly bairdly, steeve, an' swank, 
An' set weel down a shapely shank, 

As e'er tread yird ; 
An' could hae flown out-owre a stank. 

Like ony bird. 

It's now some nine-an'-twenty, year. 
Sin' thou Wfis my guid-father's meere ; 
He gied me thee, o' tocher clear, 

An' fifty mark ; 
Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear, 

An' thou was stark. 

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, 
Ye then was trottin' wi' your minnie : 
Tho' ye was trickle, slee, an' fuimie, 

Ye ne'er was donsie ; 
But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie. 

An' unco sonsie. 



That day ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, 
When ye bure hame my bonnie hride ; 
An' sweet an gracefu' she did ride, 

Wi' maiden air ! 
Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide, 

For sic a pair. 

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hobble, 
An' wintle like a saumont-coble, 
That day ye was a jinker noble, 

For heels an' win' ! 
An' ran them till they a' did wauble, 

Far, far behin', 

When thou an' I were young and skeigh, 

An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh. 

How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreigh, 

An' tak' the road ! 
Town's bodies ran, and stood abeigh. 

An' ca't thee mad. 

When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow. 
We took the road ay like a swallow . 
At Br coses thou had ne'er a fellow. 

For pith an' speed ; 
But every tail thou pay't them hollow. 

Where'er thou gaed. 

The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle. 
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle ; 
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, 

An' gart them whaizle ; 
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle 

O' saugh or hazel. 

Thou was a noble Fittie-lan\ 
As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ! 
Aft thee an' I' in aught hours gaun, 

On guid March weather, 
Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han'. 

For days thegither. 

Thou never braindg't, an' fech't, an' fliskit, 
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, 



46 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd briskit, 
Wi' pith an' pow'r, 

Till spritty Itnowes wad rair't and riskit, 
An' slippet ovvre. 

When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, 
An' threaten'd labour back to keep, 
I gied thy cog a wee-bit heap 

Aboon the timmer ; 
I ken'd my Maggie wadna sleep 

For that, or simmer. 

In cart or car thou never reestit ; 

The steyest brae thou wad hae fac'd it : 

Thou never lap, an' sten't, and breastit, 

Then stood to blaw ; 
But just thy step a wee thing hastit, 

Thou snoov't awa'. 

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a' : 
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw ; 
Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa. 

That thou hast nurst : 
They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, 

The vera warst, 

Monie a sair daurg we twa hae wrought, 
An' wi' the weary warl' fought ! 
An' monie an anxious day, I thought 

We wad be beat ! 
Yet here to crazy age we're brought, 

Wi' something yet. 

And think na, my auld, trusty servan', 
That now perhaps thou's less deservin'. 
An' thy auJd days may end in starvin', 

For my last/ow, 
A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane 

Laid by for you. 

We've worn to crazy years thegither ; 
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither ; 
Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether 

To some hain'd rig, 
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, 

Wi' sma' fatigue. 



A WINTER NIGHT. 



Poornaked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, 
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm ! 
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides 
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend 
you 

From seasons such as these ? 

Shakspeare. 



When biting Boreas, fell and doure. 
Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r ; 
When Phcebus giesa short-liv'dglow'r 

Far south the lift, 
Dim-dark'ning thro' the flaky show'r. 

Or whirling drift : 

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked. 
Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked, 



While burns wi', snawy wreaths up-choked, 
Wild eddying whirl, 

Or thro' the mining outlet bocked, 

Down headlong hurl. 

List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle, 
I thought me on the ourie cattle, 
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle 

O' winter war, 
And thro' the drift, deep-lairing sprattle. 

Beneath a scar. 

Ilk happin' bird, wee, helpless thing, 
That, in the merry months o' spring. 
Delighted me to hear thee sing, 

What comes o' thee ? 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, 

An' close thy e'e ? 

Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd 
Lone from your savage homes exil'd. 
The blood-stain'd roost, and sheep-cote 
spoil'd. 

My heart forgets. 
While pityless the tempest wild 

Sore on you beats. 

Now Phcehe, in her midnight reign, 
Dark muffl'd, view'd the dreary plain , 
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train. 

Rose in my soul, 
When on ray ear this plaintive strain, 

Slow, solemn, stole — 

" Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust! 
And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost ! 
Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows ! 
Not all your rage, as now united, shows 

More hard unkindness, unrelenting, 

Vengeful malice, unrepenting, 
Than heav'n-illumin'd man on brother man 
bestows ! 
See stern oppression's iron grip, 

Or mad ambition's gory hand. 
Sending like blood-hounds from the slip. 

Woe, want, and murder o'er a land ! 
Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale. 
Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale. 
How pamper'd luxury, flatt'ry by her side, 
The parasite empoisoning her ear, 
With all the servile wretches in the rear. 
Looks o'er proud property, extended wide ; 
And eyes the simple rustic hind. 

Whose toil upholds the glitt'ring show, 
A creature of another kind. 
Some coarser substance, unrefin'd, 
Plac'd for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, 
below, 
Where, where is love's fond, tender throe, 
With lordly honour's lofty brow. 

The pow'rs you proudly own ? 
Is there, beneath love's noble name. 
Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim. 

To bless himself alone ! 
Mark maiden-innocence a prey 

To love-pretending snares. 
This boasted honour turns away, 



BURNS S POEMS. 



47 



Shunning soft pity's rising sway, 
Regardless of the tears, and unavailing 
pray'rs I 
Perhaps this hour, in mis'ry's squalid nest, 
She strains your infant to her joyless 
breast, 
And with a mother's fears shrinks at the 
rocking blast ! 
Oh ye ! who, sunk in beds of down. 
Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 
Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate. 
Whom friends and fortune quite disown, 
Ill-satisfied keen nature's clam'rous call, 
Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself 

to sleep. 
While thro' the ragged roof and chinky 

wall. 
Chill o'er his slumbers, piles the drifty 

heap ! 
Think on the dungeon's grim confine. 
Where guilt and poor misfortune pine ! 
Guilt, erring man, relenting view! 
But shall thy legal rage pursue 
The wretch, already crushed low 
By cruel fortune's undeserved blow ? 
Affliction's sons are brothers in distress, 
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss ?" 

I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer 
Shook off the pouthery snaw. 

And hail'd the morning with a cheer, 
A cottage-rousing craw. 

But deep this truth impress'd my mind 

Thro' all his works abroad 
The heart, benevolent and kind, 

The most resembles God. 



EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 

A BROTHER POET*. 

January, — 
While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, 
And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, 

And hing us owre the ingle, 
I set me down to pass the time. 
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme. 

In hamely westlin' jingle. 
While frosty winds blaw in the drift, 

Ben to the chimla lug, 
I grudge a wee the great folks' gift, 
That live sae bien an' snug : 
I tent less, and want less 
Their roomy fire-side ; 
But hanker and canker. 
To see their cursed pride. 

Its hardly in a body's pow'r, 

To keep, at times, frae being sour. 

To see how things are shar'd ; 
How best o' chiels are whiles in want. 



* David Sillar, one of the club at Tarbolton, 
and anthor of a volume of poems in the Scottish 
dialect. 



While coofs on countless thousands rant, 

And ken na how to wair't : 
But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, 

Tho' we hae little gear. 
We're fit to win our daily bread. 
As lang's we're hale and fier : 
' Mair spier na, nor fear na*,' 
Auld age ne'er mind a feg. 
The last o't, the warst o't. 
Is only but to beg. 

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en. 

When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin. 

Is, doubtless, great distress ! 
Yet then content could mak' us blest ; 
Ev'n then, sometimes, we'd snatch a taste 

Of truest happiness. 
The honest heart that's free frae a' 

Intended fraud or guile. 
However fortune kick the ba', 
Has ay some cause to smile : 
And mind still, you'll find still, 

A comfort this nae sma' ; 
Nae mair then, we'll care then, 
Nae farther can we fa'. 

What tho', like commoners of air. 
We wander out we know not where, 

But either house or hall ? 
Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, 
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods. 

Are free alike to all. 
In days when daisies deck the ground, 

And blackbirds whistle clear, 
With honest joy our hearts will bound, 
To see the coming year : 

On braes when we please, then. 

We'll sit an' sowth a tune ; 
Syne ryhme till't, we'll time till't. 
And sing't when we hae done. 

It's no in titles nor in rank ; 

It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank. 

To purchase peace and rest ; 
It's no in makin' muckle mair : 
It's no in books ; it's no in lear. 

To make us truly blest : 
If happiness hae not her seat 

And centre in the breast, 
We may be wise, or rich, or great. 
But never can be blest : 
Nae treasures, nor pleasures. 
Could mak' us happy lang ; 
The heart ay's the part ay. 
That mak's us right or wrang 

Think ye, that sic as you and I, 

Wha drudge and drive thro' wet and dry, 

Wi' never-ceasing toil ; 
Think ye, are we less blest than they, 
Wha scarcely tent us in their way, 

As hardly worth their while ^ 
Alas how aft in haughty mood, 

God's creatures they oppress ! 
Or else, neglecting a' that's guid, 

They riot in excess ! 

* Ramsay. 



48 



BURNS S POEMS. 



Baith careless, and fearless 

Of either heav'n or hell ! 
Esteeming, and deeming 

It's a' an idle tale ! 

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce ; 
Nor mak' our scanty pleasures less, 

By pining at our state ; 
And, even should misfortunes come, 
I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some, 

An's thankfu' for them yet. 
They gie' the wit of age to youth ; 

They let us ken ourseF ; 
They mak' us see the naked truth, 
The real guid and ill. 
Tho' losses, and crosses, 

Be lessons right severe. 
There's wit there, ye'll get there. 
Ye '11 find nae other where. 

But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts! 

(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, 

And flatt'ry I detest) 
This life has joys for you and I ; 
And joys that riches ne'er could buy ; 

An' joys the very best. 
There's a' the pleasures o' the hearty 

The lover an' the frien' ; 
Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part, 
And I my darling Jean ! 
It warms me, it charms me, 

To mention but her name : 
It heats me, it beets me. 
And sets me a' on flame ! 

O all ye pow'rs who rule above ; 
O Thou, whose very self art Love ! 

Thou know'st my words sincere ! 
The life-blood streaming thro' my heart, 
Or my more dear immortal part. 

Is not more fondly dear ! 
When heart-corroding care and grief 

Deprive my soul of rest, 
Her dear idea brings relief 
And solace to my breast. 
Thou Being, All-seeing, 

O hear my fervent pray'r ; 
Still take her, and make her 
Thy most pectdiar care ! 

All hail ye tender feelings dear ; 
The smile of love, the friendly tear, 

The sympathetic glow ; 
Long since, this world's thorny ways 
Had number'd out my weary days. 

Had it not been for you ! 
Fate still has blest me with a friend, 

In every care and ill ; 
And ofl a more endearing band, 
A tie more tender still. 
It lightens, it brightens 
The tenebrific scene. 
To meet with, and greet with 
My Davie or my Jean. 

O, how that name inspires my style ! 
The words come skelpin' rank and file, 



Amaist before I ken ! 
The ready measure rins as fine, 
As Phoebus and the famous Nine 

Were glowrin' owre my pen. 
My spaviet Pegasus will limp. 

Till ance he's fairly het ; 
And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp, 
An' rin an unco fit : 

But lest then, the beast then, 
Should rue this hasty ride, 
I'll light now, and dight now 
His sweaty, wizen'd hide. 

THE LAMENT. 

OCCASIONED BV THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE OF 
A friend's AMOUR. 



Alas ! how oft does Goodness wound itself, 
And sweet Affection prove the spring of woe ! 

Horns. 



thou pale orb, that silent shines. 
While care-untroubled mortals sleep ! 

Thou seest a wretch that inly pines. 
And wanders here to wail and weep ; 

With woe I nightly vigils keep. 

Beneath thy wan unwarming beam ; 

And mourn, in lamentation deep. 
How life and love are all a dream. 

1 joyless view thy rays adorn 

The faintly-marked distant hill : 
I joyless view thy trembling horn, 

Reflected in the gurgling »ill : 
My fondly-fluttering heart, be still ', 

Thou busy pow'r, Remembrance, cease! 
Ah ! must the agonizing thrill 

For ever bar returning peace ! 

No idly feign'd -poetic pains. 

My sad, love-lorn lanientings claim ; 
No shepherd's pipe — Arcadian strains ; 

No fabled tortures, quaint and tame • 
The plighted faith ; the mutual flame ; 

The afi attested pow'rs above ; 
The promised Father's tender name : 

These were the pledges of my love ! 

Encircled in her clasping arms, 

How have the raptur'd moments flown ! 
How have I wish'd for fortune's charms, 

For her dear sake, and her's alone ! 
And must I think it I is she gone. 

My secret heart's exulting boast .'' 
And does she heedless hear my groan .'* 

And is she ever, ever lost.'' 

Oh ! can she bear so base a heart. 

So lost to honour, lost to truth, 
As from the fondest lover part, 

The plighted husband of her youth ? 
Alas ! life's path may be unsmoolh ! 

Her way may lie thro' rough distress! 
Then, who her pangs and pains will soothe. 

Her sorrows share, and make them less ? 



BURNS S POEMS. 



49 



Yo winged hours that o'er us past, 

Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd, 
Your dear remembrance in my breast, 

My fondly- treasur'd thoughts employ 'd. 
That breast, how dreary now, and void,. 

For her too scanty once of room ! 
Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd, 

And not a wish to gild the gloom ! 

The morn that warns th' approaching day, 

Awakes me up to toil and woe : 
I see the hours in long array, 

That I must suffer, lingering, slow. 
Full many a pang, and many a throe, 

Keen recollection's direful train, 
Must ring ray soul, ere Phoebus, low, 

Shall kiss the distant, western main. 

And when my nightly couch I try, 

Sore-harrass'd out with care and grief, 
My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye. 

Keep watchings with the nightly thief: 
Or if I slumber, fancy, chief. 

Reigns haggard-wild, in sore affright : 
Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings relief. 

From such a horror-breathing night. 

O ! thou bright queen, who o'er th' expanse 

Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway ! 
Oft has thy silent-marking glance 

Observ'd us, fondly-wand'ring, stray! 
The time, unheeded, sped away, 

While love's luxurious pulse beat high, 
Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray. 

To mark the mutual-kindling eye. 

Oh ! scenes in strong remembrance set ! 

Scenes, never, never to return ! 
Scenes, if in stupor I forget. 

Again I feel, again I burn ! 
From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn, 

Life's weary vale I'll wander thro' ; 
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn 

A faithless woman's broken vow. 

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, 
IN APRIL, 1786. 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r 
Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy slender stem ; 
To spare thee now is past my pow'r. 

Thou bonnie gem. 

Alas ! its no thy neebor sweet, 
The bonnie Lark, companion meet ! 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! 

Wi' spreckled breast, 
VVhen upward-springing, blythe, to greet 

The purpling East. 

7 



Cauld blew the bitter-biting North 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield. 
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield. 
But thou beneath the random bield 

O' clod or stane, 
Adorns the liistie stibble-field, 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawy bosom sunward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise ; 
But now the share uptears thy bed. 

And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless Maid, 
Sweet Jiow'ret of the rural shade ! 
By love's simplicity betray'd. 

And guileless trust, 
Till she, like thee, all soil'd is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple Bard, 

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd ! 

Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore, 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 

And whelm him o'er ! 

Such fate to svffering worth is giv'n. 

Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, 

By human pride or cunning driv'n 

To mis'ry's brink. 
Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, 

He'll, ruin'd, sink ! 

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate. 
That fate is thine — no distant date ; 
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, 

Full on thy bloom, 
Till crush 'd beneath the furrow's weight, 

Shall be thy doom ! 

DESPONDENCY. 

AN ODE. 

Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with care, 
A burden more than I can bear, 

I sit me down and sigh : 
O life ! thou art a galling load, 
Along a rough, a weary road. 

To wretches such as I ! 
Dim backward as I cast my view. 
What sick'ning scenes appear ! 
What sorrows yet may pierce me thro'. 
Too justly I may fear ! 
Still caring, despairing, 

Must be my bitter doom ; 
My woes here shall close ne'er. 
Bat with the closing tomb ! 



50 



BURNS S POEMS. 



Happy, yo sons of busy life, 
Who, equal to the bustling strife, 

No other view regard ! 
Ev'n when the wished end's deny'd, 
Yet while the busy means are ply'd, 

They bring their own reward : 
Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight, 

Unfitted with an aim, 
Meet ev'ry sad returning night, 
And joyless morn the same ; 
Yon, bustling, and justling, 

Forget each grief and pain ; 
I, listless, yet restless. 

Find every prospect vain. 

How blest the Solitary's lot, 
Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot, 

Within his humble cell, 
The cavern wild with tangling roots, 
Sits o'er his newly gather'd fruits, 

Beside his chrystal well ! 
Or, haply, to his ev'ning thought. 

By unfrequented stream. 
The ways of men are distant brought, 
A faint-collected dream : 
While praising, and raising 

His thoughts to heav'n on high, 
As wand'ring, meand'ring. 
He views the solemn sky. 



Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd 
^ Where never human footstep trac'd, 
Less fit to play the part ; 
The lucky moment to improve, 
And just to stop, and just to move. 

With self-respecting art : 
But ah I those pleasures, loves, and joys, 

Which 1 too keenly taste, 
The Solitary can despise. 
Can want, and yet be blest ! 
He needs not, he heeds not, 

Or human love or hate. 
Whilst I here must cry here, 
At perfidy ingrate ! 

Oh ! enviable, early days, 

When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze. 

To care, to guilt unknown ! 
How ill exchang'd for riper times. 
To feel the follies, or the crimes, 

Of others, or my own ! 
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport. 

Like linnets in the bush, 
Ye little know the ills ye court, 
When manhood is your wish ! 
The losses, the crosses. 
That active-man engage ! 
The fears all, the tears all, 
Of dim-declining age I 





THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 



INSCRIBED TO R. A' 



ESQ. 



Let not ambition mock their useful toil. 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 

Nor grandeur hear, wiih a disdainful smile 
The short but simple annals of the poor. 

Gray. 



My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected 
friend ! 
No mercenary bard his homage pays : 
With honest pride I scorn each selfish end : 
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and 
praise : 
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 

The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene ; 
The native feelings strong, the guileless 
ways; 
What A**** in a cottage would have been ; 
Ah ! tho' his worth unknown, far happier 
there, I ween. 

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; 

The short'ning winter-day is near a close ; 
The miry beasts returning frae the plough ; 
The black'ning trains o' craws to their 
repose ; 
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, 
This night his weekly moil is at an end. 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his 
hoes, 
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does 
hameward bend. 

At length his lonely cot appears in view, 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree : 
Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin', stacher 
thro' 
To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin' nojse an' 
glee. 



His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily, 

His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie toifie's 
smile, 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee. 

Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, 
An' male's him quite forgetliis labour an' his 
toil. 

Belyve, the elder bairns Come drapping in, 
At service out, amang the farmers roun' ; 
Some ca' the plough, some herd, some tentie 
rin 
A cannie errand to a neebor town : 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman 
grown. 
In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her 
e'e. 
Comes hame, perhaps, to shewabraw new 
gown. 
Or deposit her sair-won penny fee, 
To help her parents dear, if they in need 
should be. 

Wi' joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, 

An' each for other's welfare kindly spiers ; 
The social hours, swift- wing'd, unnotic'd 
fleet; 

Each tells the'uncos that he sees or hears ; 
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; 

Anticipation forward points the view, 
The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers, 

Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the 
new ; 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 

Their master's an' their mistress's command, 
The younkers a' are warned to obey ; 

An' mind their labours wi' an eydent hand, 
An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or 
play: 

An' oh ! be sure to fear the Lord alway ! 
An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night. 

Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 



52 



BURNS S POEMS. 



Implore his counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain that sought the 
Lord aright !' 

But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door j 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor, 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame, 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jeeny's e'e, and flush her cheek; 
Wi' heart-struck anxious care, inquires his 
name, 

While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; 
Weel pleas'd the mother hears, he's nae wild, 
worthless rake. 

Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben ; 
A strappan youth ; he tak's the mother's 
eye; 
Blyth Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 
The father cracks of horses, pleughs and 
kye. 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' 

But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel 
behave ; 
The mither, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 
What mak's the youth sae bashfu' an' sae 
grave ; 
Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respeckit 
like the lave. 

O happy love ! where love like this is found I 
O heart-felt raptures I bliss beyond com- 
pare! 

I've paced much this weary mortal roundy 
And sage experience bids me this declare — 

* If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure 

spare^ 
One cordial in this melancholy vale, 

* Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 

In others arms breathe out the tender tale, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the 
ev'ning gale.' 

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart — 
A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and 
truth! 
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 
Curse on his perjur'd arts! dissembUng 
smooth ! 
Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their 
child ? 
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their dis- 
traction wild ? 

But now the supper crowns their simple 
board. 
The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's 
food: 
The soupe their only Hawkie does afford. 
That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her 
cood: 
The dame brings forth in complimental mood; 



To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, 
fell. 
An' aft he's prest, an' afl he ca's it guid; 

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell 
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' 
the bell. 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 

They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; 
The sire turns o'er wi' patriarchal grace, 

The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride : 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 

His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare ; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion 
glide. 

He wales a portion with judicious care ; 
And ^ Let us worship God!' he says, with 
solemn air. 

They chant their artless notes in simple 
guise ; 
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest 
aim ; 
Perhaps Dundee's, wild warbling measures 
rise. 
Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the 
name; 
Or noble Elgin beets the heav'n ward flame. 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compar'd with these, Italian thrills are 
tame; 
The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures 
raise ; 
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's 
praise. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 

How Abram was the friend of God on 
high; 
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny; 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging 
ire; 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 
How guiltless blood for guilty man was 
shed; 
How He, who bore in Heaven the second 
name, 
Had not on earth whereon to lay his head : 
How his first followers and servants sped ; 
The precepts sage they wrote to many a 
land : 
How He, who lone, in Patmos banished, 
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd 
by Heav'n's command. 

Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal 
King, 
The saint, the father, and the husband 
prays ; 



BURNS S POEMS. 



53 



Hope 'springs exulting on triumphant wing*', 
That thus they all shall meet in future days : 

There ever bask in uncreated rays, 
No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, 

Together hymning their Creator's praise, 
In such society, yet still more dear ; 

While circling time moves round in an 
eternal sphere. 

Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's 
pride. 

In all the pomp of method, and of art. 
When men display to congregations wide 

Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart ! 
The Pow'r, incens'd, the pageant will desert. 

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 
But haply, in some cottage far apart, 

May hear, well pleas'd the language of the 
soul ; 
And in his book of life the inmates poor enrol. 

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral 
way; 
The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 
The parent-pair their secret homage pay, 
And proffer up to Heaven the warm 
request — 
That He who stills the raven's clam'rous 
nest, 
And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride. 
Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best. 
For them and for their little ones provide ; 
But chiefly, in their hearts with ^race divine 
preside. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur 
springs. 

That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd 
abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 

' An honest man's the noblest work of God:' 
And certesj in fair virtue's heav'nly road, 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; 
What is a lordling's pomp ? a cumbrous load. 

Disguising ofl the wretch of human kind, 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd ! 

O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 
For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is 
sent ! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, 
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet 
content ! 
And, Oh ! may Heaven their simple lives 
prevent 
From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 

A virtuous populace may rise the while. 
And stand a wall of fire around their much- 
lov'd Isle. 

O Thou .' who pour'd the patriotic tide 
That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted 
heart ! 

Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride. 
Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 

* Pope's Windsor Forest. 



(The patriot's Ood peculiarly thou art. 
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) 

O never, never, Scotia'a realm desert : 
But still the patriot, and the patriot-hard, 

In bright succession raise, her ornament and 
guard ! 

TO MISS L , 

WITH BEATTIE's poems, AS A NEW YEAR's 
GIFT, JANUARY 1, 1787. 

Again the silent wheels of time 
Their annual rounds have driv'n, 

And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, 
Are so much nearer heav'n. 

No gifts have I from Indian coasts 

The infant year to hail ; 
I send you more than India boasts, 

In Edwin's simple tale. 

Our sex with guile and faithless lovo 
Is charg'd, perhaps, too true ; 

But may, dear maid, each lover prove 
An Edwin still to you ! 

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 



MAY 



1786. 



I lang hae thought my youthfu' friend, 

A something to have sent you, 
Tho' it should serve nae ither end 

Than just a kind memento ; 
But how the subject-theme may gang. 

Let time and chance determine ; 
Perhaps it may turn out a sang, 

Perhaps turn out a sermon. 

Ye'll try the world soon, my lad. 

And, Andrew dear, believe me, 
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad, 

And muckle they may grieve ye : 
For care and trouble set your thought, 

Ev'n when your end's attained ; 
And a' your views may come to nought 

Where ev'ry nerve is strained. 

I'll no say men are villains a' ; 

The real harden'd wicked, 
Wha hae nae check but human law, 

Are to a few restricked : 
But och ! mankind are unco weak. 

An' little to be trusted ; 
If 5g//the wavering balance shake. 

It's rarely right adjusted. 

Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife. 

Their fate we should na' censure, 
For still th' important end of life 

They equally may answer ; 
A man may hae an honest heart, 

Tho' poortith hourly stare him ; 
A man may tak' a neebor's part, 

Yet hae nae cash to spare him 



54 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



Ay free, aff han' your story tell, 

When wi' a bosom crony ; 
But still keep something to yoursel' 

Ye 11 scarcely tell to ony. 
Conceal yoursel' as weel's you can 

Frae critical dissection ; 
But keek thro' ev'ry other man, 

Wi' sharpen'd, slee inspection. 

The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, 

Luxuriantly indulge it ; 
But never tempt th' illicit rove, 

Tho' naething should divulge it ; 
I wave the quantum o' the sin, 

The hazard o' concealing ; 
But och ! it hardens a' within, 

And petrifies the feeling ! 

To catch dame Fortune's golden smile. 

Assiduous wait upon her ; 
And gather gear by ev'ry wile 

That's justified by honour ; 
Yet no to hide it in a hedge, 

Nor for a train attendant ; 
But for the glorious privilege 

Of being independent. 

The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip 
To baud the wretch in order ; 

Whar' e'er ye fin' your honour grip, 
Let that ay be your border ; 



Its slightest touches, instant pause — 

Debar a' side pretences ; 
And resolutely keep its laws. 

Uncaring consequences. 

The great Creator to revere, 

Must sure become the creature ; 
But still the preaching cant forbear, 

And ev'n the rigid feature : 
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range 

Be complaisance extended ; 
An Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange 

For Deity oflfended ! 

When ranting round in pleasure's ring. 

Religion may be blinded ; 
Or if she gie a random sting, 

It may be little minded } 
But when on life we're tempest-driv'n, 

A conscience but a canker — 
A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n, 

Is sure a noble anchor ! 

Adieu, dear amiable youth I 

Your heart can ne'er be wanting : 
May prudence, fortitude, and truth. 

Erect your brow undaunting ! 
In ploughman phrase,' God sendj^ou speed,' 

Still daily to grow wiser ; 
And may you better reck the rede. 

Than ever did th' adviser ! 





MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 

A DIRGE. 

When chill November's surly blast 

Made fields and forests bare, 
One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth 

Along the banks of Jlyr, 
I spy'd a man, whose aged step 

Seem'd weary, worn with care ; 
His face was furrow'd o'er with years, 

And hoary was his hair. 

Yotmg stranger, whither wand'rest thou ? 

Began the rev'rend sage ; 
Does thirst of wealth thy steps constrain, 

Or youthful pleasure's rage ? 
Or haply, prest with cares and woes, 

Too soon thou hast began 
To wander forth with me to mourn 

The miseries of man ! 

The sun that overhangs yon moors, 

Out-spreading far and wide. 
Where hundreds labour to support 

A haughty lordling's pride ; 
I've seen yon weary winter-sun 

Twice forty times return ; 
And ev'ry time has added proofs, 

That man was made to mourn. 

O man ! while in thy early years, 

How prodigal of time ! 
Mispending all thy precious hours, 

Thy glorious youthful prime ! 
Alternate follies take the sway ; 

Licentious passions burn ; 
Which tenfold force gives nature's law, 

That man was made to mourn. 

Look not alone on youthful prime, 
Or manhood's active might ; 

Man then is useful in his kind, 
Supported is his right : 



But see him on the edge of life, 
With cares and sorrows worn, 

Then age and want. Oh ! ill-match'd pair ! 
Show man was made to mourn. 

A few seem favourites of fate, 

In pleasure's lap carest: 
Yet, think not all the rich and great 

Are likewise truly blest. 
But, Oh ! what crowds in ev'ry land 

Are wretched and forlorn ; 
Thro' weary life this lesson learn. 

That man was made to mourn. 

Many and sharp the numerous ills 

Inwoven with our frame ! 
More pointed still we make ourselves. 

Regret, remorse, and shame ! 
And man, whose heav'n-erected face 

The smiles of love adorn, 
Man's inhumanity to man 

Makes countless thousands mourn ! 

See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight. 

So abject, mean, and vile. 
Who begs a brother of the earth 

To give him leave to toil ; 
And see his lordly fellow -worm 

The poor petition spurn, 
Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife 

And helpless offspring mourn. 

If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave — 

By nature's law design'd, 
Why was an independent wish 

E'er planted in my mind.'' 
If not, why am I subject to 

His cruelty or scorn ? 
^ Or why has man the will and pow'r 

To make his fellow mourn ? 

Yet, let not this too much, my son, 
Disturb thy youthful breast : 



56 



BURNS S POEMS. 



This partial view of human-kind 

Is surely not the last ! 
The poor, oppressed, honest man, 

Had never, sure, been born, 
Had there not been some recompence 

To comfort those ■ that mourn ! 

O death ! the poor man's dearest friend, 

The kindest and the best ! 
"Welcome the hour my aged limbs 

Are laid with thee at rest ! 
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, 

From pomp and pleasure torn ; 
But, Oh ! a blest relief to those 

That weary-laden mourn ! 

ATRAYER, 

IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. 

O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause 

Of all my hope and fear ! 
In whose dread presence, ere an hour, 

Perhaps I must appear ! 

If I have wander'd in those paths 

Of life I ought to shun ; 
As something, loudly, in my breast, 

Remonstrates I have done ; 

Thou know'st that thou hast formed me 

With passions wild and strong ; 
And list'ning to their witching voice 

Have often led me wrong. 

Where human weakness has come short, 

Ot frailty stept aside, 
Do thou. All- Good ! for such thou art, 

In shades of darkness hide. 

Where with intention I have err'd, 

No other plea I have, 
But, Thou art good; and goodness still 

Delightethto forgive. 

STANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION. 

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene ? 

Have I so found it full of pleasing charms? 
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill 
between : 
Some gleams of sunshine 'raid renewing 
storms : 
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ? 

Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode ? 
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms ; 

I tremble to approach an angry God, 
And justly smart beneath his sin avenging 
rod. 

Fain would I say, 'Forgive my foul offence !' 
Fain promise never more to disobey ; 

But, should my Author health again dispense, 
Again I might desert fair virtue's way ; 



Again in folly's path might go astray ; 

Again exalt the brute and sink the man, 
Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray ; 

Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan' 
Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to tempta- 
tion ran? 

O thou, great Governor of all below 1 

If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, 

Or still the tumult of the raging sea : 
With that controlling power assist ev'n me. 

Those headlong furious passions to confine; 
For all unfit I feel my powers to be, 

To rule their torrent in th' allowed line j 
O, aid me with thy help, Omnipotence divine! 

LYING AT A REVEREND FRIEND's HOUSE ONE 
NIGHT THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING 

VERSES 

IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT, 

O Thou dread power, who reign'st above, 

I know thou wilt me hear ; 
When for this scene of peace and love, 

I make my prayer sincere. 

The hoary sire — the mortal stroke, 
Long, long, be pleas'd to spare ! 

To bless his little filial flock, 
And show what good men are. 

She, who her lovely oflfspring eyes 

With tender hopes and fears, 
O, bless her with a mother's joys, 

But spare a mother's tears ! 

Their hope, their stay, their darling youth. 

In manhood's dawning blush; 
Bless him, thou God of love and truth. 

Up to a parent's wish ! 

The beauteous, seraph sister-band. 

With earnest tears I pray, 
Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand. 

Guide thou their steps alway ! 

When soon or late they reach that coast. 
O'er life's rough ocean driv'n. 

May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost, 
A family in Heav'n ! 



THE FIRST PSALM. 

The man, in life wherever plac'd. 

Hath happiness in store, 
Who walks not in the wicked's way, 

Nor learns their guilty lore ! 

Nor from the seat of scornful pride 
Casts forth his eyes abroad, 

But with humility and awe 
Still walks before his God. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



57 



That man shall flourish like the trees 
Which by the streamlets grow ; 

The fruitful top is spread on high, 
And firm the root below. 

But he whose blossom buds in guilt 

Shall to the ground be cast, 
And, like the rootless stubble, tost 

Before the sweeping blast. 

For why ? that God the good adore 
Hath giv'nihem peace and rest, 

But hath decreed that wicked men 
Shall ne'er be truly blest. 

••♦♦•®®**** 

A PRAYER, 

UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH. 

O Thou Great Being ! what thou art 

Surpasses me to know : 
Yet sure am I, that known to thee 

Are all thy works below. 

Thy creature here before thee stands, 

AH wretched and distrest; 
Yet sure those ills that wring my soul 

Obey thy high behest. 

Sure thou, Almighty, canst not act 

From cruelty or wrath I 
O, free my weary eyes from tears, 

Or close them fast in death ! 

But if I must afflicted be, 

To suit some wise design ; 
Then man my soul with firm resolves 

To bear and not repine ! 

THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF 

THE NINETEENTH PSALM. 

O Thou, the first, the greatest Friend 

Of all the human race ! 
Whose strong right hand has ever been 

Their stay and dwelling-place ! 

Before the mountains heav'd their heads 

Beneath thy forming hand, 
Before this pond'rous globe itself 

Arose at thy command ; 

That pow'r which rais'd and still upholds 

This universal frame, 
From countless, unbeginning time, 

Was ever still the same. 

Those mighty periods of years 

Which seem to us so vast, 
Appear no more before thy sight 

Than yesterday that's past. 

Thou giv'st the word : Thy creature, man. 

Is to existence brought : 
Again thou say'st, ' Ye sons of men, 

Return ye hito nought !' 

8 



Thou layest them, with all their cares. 

In everlasting sleep ; 
As with a flood thou tak'st them off 

With overwhelming sweep. 

They flourish like the morning flow'r, 

In beauty's pride array'd ; 
But long ere night, cut down it lies 

All wither'd and decay'd. 



ON A SCOTCH BARD. 

GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. 

A' ye wha live by soups o' drink, 
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, 
A' ye wha live and never think. 

Come mourn wi' me ! 
Our hillie's gien us a' a jink. 

An' owre the sea. 

Lament him a' ye rantin' core, 
Wha dearly like a random splore, 
Nae mair he'll join the merry roar 

In social key ; 
For now he's ta'en anither shore. 

An' owre the sea. 

The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him, 
And in their dear petitions place him : 
The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, 

Wi' tearfu' e'e; 
For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him 

That's owre the sea. 

O Fortune, they hae room to grumble ! 
Hadst thou ta'en aff" some drowsy bummle, 
Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble, ^ 

'Twad been nae plea ; 
But he was gleg as ony wumble 

That's owre the sea. 

Auld cantie Kijle may weepers wear, 
An' stain them wi the saut, saut tear ; 
'Twill mak' her poor auld heart, I fear, 

In flinders flee ; 
He was her laureate monie a year 

That's owre the sea- 

He saw misfortune's cauld J\^or-west 
Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; 
A jiilet brak' his heart at last, 

ril may she be ! 
So, took a birth afore the mast, 

An' owre the sea. 

To tremble under Fortune's cummock. 
On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, 
Wi' his proud independent stomach 

Could ill agree ; 
So, row't his hurdles in a Jiammock, 

An' owre the sea. 

He ne'er was gi'en to great misguiding. 
Yet coin his pouches wadna bide in ; 
Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding ; 

He dealt it free : 
The muse was a' that he took pride in, 

That's owre the sea. 



58 



BURNS S POEMS. 



Jamaica bodies, use him weel, 
An' hap him in a cozie biel ; 
Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel, 

And fu' o' glee ; 
He wadna wrang'd the vera deil, 

That's owre the sea. 

Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie! 
Your native soil was right ill-willie ; 
But may ye flourish like a lily, 

Now bonnilie ! 
I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, 

The' owre the sea. 



OF- 



ODE, 

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. 

Dweller in yon dungeon dark, 
Hangman of creation ! mark 
Who in widow-weeds appears, 
Laden with unhonour'd years, 
Noosing with care a bursting purse, 
Baited with many a deadly curse ! 

STROPHE. 

View the wither'd beldam's face — 

Can thy keen inspection trace 

Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace ? 

Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows, 

Pity's flood there never rose. 

See those hands, ne'er stretch'd to save, 

Hands that took — but never gave. 

Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, 

Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest 

She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest! 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Phmderer of armies, lift thine eyes, 

(A while forbear, ye tort'ring fiends) 

Seest thou whose step unwilling hither bends.^ 

No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies j 

'Tis thy trusty quondam mate^ 

Doom'd to share thy fiery fate, 

She, tardy, hell-ward plies. 



EPODE. 

And are they of no more avail, 

Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a year! 

In other worlds can Mammon fail, 

Omnipotent as he is here ? 

O, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier, r, 

W hile down the wretched vital part is driv'n ! 

The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience 

clear, 
Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav'n. 



TO RUIN. 

All hail ! inexorable lord ! 

At whose destruction-breathing word 

The mightiest empires fall ! 
Thy cruel, woe-delighted train, 
The ministers of grief and pain, 

A sullen welcome, all ! 
With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye, 

I see each aimed dart ; 
For one has cut my dearest tie^ 
And quivers in my heart. 
Then low'ring, and pouring, 

The storm no more I dread ; 
Tho' thick'ning and black'ning 
Round my devoted head. 

And, thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd, 
While life a pleastire can afford, 

Oh ! hear a wretch's pray'r ! 
No more I shrink appall'd, afraid ; 
I court, I beg thy friendly aid, 
To close this scene of care ! 
When shall my soul, in silent peace. 

Resign life's joyless day ; 
My weary heart its throbbings cease, 
Cold mould'ring in the clay .'' 
No fear more, no tear more. 
To stain my lifeless face j 
Enclasped, and grasped 
Within thy cold embrace ! 





TO A HAGGIS. 

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, 
Great chieftain o' the puddin'-race ! 
Aboon them a' ye tak' your place, 

Painch, tripe, orthairm ; 
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace 

As lang's my airra. 

The groaning trencher there ye fill, 
Your hurdies like a distant hill. 
Your pin wad help to mend a mill 

In time o' need, 
While thro' your pores the dews distil 

Like amber bead. 

His knife, see rustic labour dight, 
An' cut you up with ready slight. 
Trenching your gushing entrails bright, 

Like ony ditch ; 
And then, O what a glorious sight, 

Warm-reekin', rich ! 

Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive, 
Deil tak' the hindmost, on they drive, 
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve 

Are bent like drums ; 
Then auld guidraan, maist like to ryve. 

Bethankit hums. 

Is there that o'er his Frewch ragout, 
Or olio that wad staw a sow. 
Or fricasee wad raak' her spew 

Wi' perfect sconner, 
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view 

On sic a dinner ? 

Poor devil ! see him owre his trash, 
As feckless as a wither'd rash. 
His spindle shank, a guid whip lash. 

His nieve a nit ; 
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash, 

O how unfit ! 

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed, 

The trembling earth resounds his tread, 



Clap in his walie nieve a blade, 

He'll mak' it whissle ; 

An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned, 
Like taps o' thrissle. 

Ye powers, wha mak' mankind your care, 
And dish them out their bill o' fare, 
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware 

That jaups in luggies ; 
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer, 

Gie her a Haggis ! 

— -QO®— 
A DEDICATION. 

TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 

Expect na. Sir, in this narration, 
A fleechin', fleth'rin' dedication^ 
To roose you up, an' ca' you guid, 
An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid. 
Because ye 're surnam'd like his grace j 
Perhaps related to the race ; 
Then when I'm tir'd — and say are %je, 
Wi' monie a fulsome, sinfu' lie, r 
Set up a face, how I stop short. 
For fear your modesty be hurt.' 

This may do — maun do, Sir, wi' them wha 
Maun please the great folk for a wamefu' ; 
For me ! sae laigh I needna' bow. 
For, Lord be thankit, / can plough ; 
And when I downa' yoke a naig, -^ 
Then, Lord be thankit, / can beg ; 
Sae I shall say, an' that's nae flatt'rin'. 
It's just sic pioet, an' sic patron. 

The Poet, some guid angel help him. 
Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp him. 
He may do weel for a' he's done yet, 
But only he's no just begun yet. 

The Patron (Sir, ye maun forgie me, 
I winna lie, come what will o' me). 
On ev'ry hand it will allow'd be, 
He's just — nae better than he should be. 



60 



BURNS S POEMS. 



I readily and freely grant, 
He downa' see a poor man want ; 
What's no his ain he winna' tak' it, ^ 
What ance he says he winna' break it ; 
Ought he can lend he'll no refus't, 
Till aft his goodness is abus'd : 
And rascals whyles that do him wrang, 
Ev'n that, he doesna' mind it lang : 
As master, landlord, husband, father, 
He doesna' fail his part in either. 

But then, nae thanks to him for a' that ', 
Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that ; 
Its naething but a milder feature 
Of our poor sinfu' corrupt nature : 
Ye'll get the best o' moral works, 
'Mang black Gentoos, and pagan Turks, 
Or hunters wild, on Ponataxi, 
Wha never heard of orthodoxy. 
That he's the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word and deed, 
It's no thro' terror of d-ma-tion ; 
It's just a carnal inclination. 

Morality, thou deadly bane, 
Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain ! 
Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is 
In moral mercy, truth, and justice ! 

No — stretch a point to catch a plack ; 
Abuse a brother to his back ; 
Steal thro' a winnock frae a wh-re. 
But point the rake that taks the door : 
Be to the poor like onie whunstane. 
And baud their noses to the grunstane, 
Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving ; 
Nae matter, stick to sound believing. 

Learn three-mile pray'rs, and half-mile 
graces, 
Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang wry faces ; 
Grunt up a solemn lengthen 'd groan. 
And damn a' parties but your own ; 
I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver, 
•A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. 

O ye wha leave the springs of C-lv-n, 
For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin' ! 
Ye sons uf heresy and error, 
Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror! 
When vengeance draws the sword in wrath, 
And in the fire throws the sheath ; 
When Ruin, with his sweeping besom, 
Just frets till Heav'n commission gies him : 
While o'er the harp pale mis'ry moans. 
And strikes the-ever deep'ning tones, 
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans ! 

Your pardon, Sir, for this digression, 
I maist forgat my dedication ; 
But when divinity comes cross me. 
My readers still are sure to lose me. 

So, Sir, ye see 'twas no daft vapour, 
But I maturely thought it proper. 
When a,' my works I did review. 
To dedicate them Sir, to You : 
Because (ye needna' tak' it ill) 
I thought them something like yoursel'. 



Then patronize them wi' your favour. 
And your petitioner shall ever — 
I had amaist said, ever pray. 
But that's a word I needna' say : 
For prayin', I hae little skill o't ; 
I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't ; 
But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r^ 
That kens or hears about you, Sir — 

' May ne'er misfortune's growling bark 
Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk ! 
May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart, 
For that same gen'rous spirit smart ! 
May K ***** 's far honour'd name 
Lang beet his hymeneal flame. 
Till H**** ****s, at least a dizen, 
Are frae their nuptial labours risen : 
Five bonnie lasses round their table. 
And seven braw fellows, stout an' able 
To serve their king and country weel, 
By word, or pen, or pointed steel ! 
May health and peace, with mutual rays, 
Shine on the evening o' his days ; 
Till his wee curlie John's ier-oe, 
When ebbing life nae mair shall flow, 
The last, sad, mournfu' rites bestow !' 

I will not wind a lang conclusion, 
Wi' complimentary efl^usion : 
But whilst your wishes and endeavours 
Are blest with Fortune's smiles and favours, 
I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent. 
Your much indebted, humble servant. 

But if (which Pow'rs above prevent !) 
That iron-hearted carl, Want, 
Attended, in his ^rim advances, 
By sad mistakes, and black mischances, 
While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, 
Make you as poor a dog as I am, 
Your humble servant then no more ; 
For who would humbly serve the poor ! 
But, by a poor man's hopes in heaven ! 
While recollection's pow'r is given, 
If, m the vale of humble life. 
The victim sad of fortune's strife, 
I, thro' the tender gushing tear, 
Should recognize my master dear, 
If friendless, low, we meet together, 
Then, Sir,your hand — my/neridand brother! 

— ^O'©— 

TO A LOUSE : 

ON SEEING ONE ON A LADt's BONNET AT CHURCH. 

Ha ! whar'e ye gaun, ye crowlin' ferlie ! 
Your impudence protects you sairly : 
I canna' say but ye strunt rarely, 

Owre gauze and lace ; 
Tho' faith, I fear ye dine but sparely 

On sic a place. 

Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner. 
Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner. 
How dare ye set your fit upon her, 

Sae fine a lady ! 
Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner 

On some poor body. 



BURNS'S POEMS, 



61 



Swith, in some beggar's hafFet squattle ; 
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle 
Wi' ither kindred, jumpin' cattle. 

In shoals and nations ; 
Whare horn or hane ne'er dare unsettle 

Your thick plantations. 

Now hand you there, ye're out o' sight, 
Below the fatt'rils, snug an' tight ; 
Na, faith ye yet ! ye'll no be right 

Till ye've got on it, 
The vera tapmost, tow'ring height 

O' Miss's bonnet. 

My sooth ! right bauld ye set your nose out, 
As plump and ffray as onie grozet ; 

for some rank, mercurial rozet, 

Or fell, red smeddum, 
I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't. 

Wad dress your drodduml 

1 wadna' been surpris'd to spy 
You on a auld wifes's flainen toy ; 
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, 

On's wyliecoat ; 
But Miss's fine Lunardi! fie. 

How dare ye do't ! 

O Jenny, dinna toss your head. 
An' set your beauties a' abread ! 
Ye little ken what cursed speed 

The blastie's makin' ! 
Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread, 

Are notice takin' ! 

O wad some pow'r the giftie gie us 
To see ourseVs as others see us ! 
It wad frae monie a blunder free us 

And foolish notion : 
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, 

And ev'n Devotion ! 

ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. 

Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs. 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray 'd, 
And singing, lone, the linff'rmg hours, 

I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 

Here wealth still swells the golden tide. 

As busy trade his labours plies j 
There architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendour rise ; 
Here justice, from her native skies, 

High wields the balance and her rod j 
There learning, with his eagle eyes, 

Seeks science in her coy abode. 

Thy Sons, Edina, social, kind. 

With open arms the stranger hail ; 

Their views enlarg'd, their lib'ral mind, 
Above the narrow, rural vale ; 



Attentive still to sorrow's wail, 
Or modest merit's silent claim ; 

And never may their sources fail ! 
And never envy blot their name ! 

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn! 

Gay as the gilded summer sky. 
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, 

Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy ! 
Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, 

Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine ; 
I see the sire of love on high, 

And own his work indeed divine ! 

There, watching high the least alarms. 

Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar ; 
Like some bold vet'ran, gray in arms. 

And mark'd with many a seamy scar : 
The pond'rous wall and massy bar, 

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock ; 
Have oft withstood assailing war, 

And oft repell'd th' invader's shock. 

With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, 

I view that noble, stately dome. 
Where Scotia's kings of other years, 

Fam'd heroes ! had their royal home : 
Alas ! how chang'd the times to come ! 

Their royal name low in the dust ! 
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam! 

Tho' rigid law cries out, 'tis just ! 

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, 

Whose ancestors, in days of yore. 
Thro' hostile ranks and vuin'd gaps 

Old Scotia's bloody lion bore : 
Ev'n / who sing in rustic lore, 

Haply my sires have left their shed, 
And fac'd grim danger's loudest roar. 

Bold-following where your fathers led ! 

Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs. 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildly scatter'd flow'rs, 

As on the banks of Ayr 1 stray 'd, 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 

EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK, 

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD. 

April 1st, 1785. 
While briers and woodbines budding green, 
An' paitricks screichin, loud at e'en. 
An' morning poussie whiddin' seen. 

Inspire my muse, 
This freedom in an unknown frien' 

I pray excuse. 

On fastern-e'en we had a rockin, 

To ca'the crack and weave our stockin; 

And there was muckle fun and jokin', 

Ye needna doubt; 
At length we had a hearty yokin' 

At sang about. 



62 



BURNS S POEMS. 



There was ae sang, amang the rest, 
Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best, 
That some kind husband had addrest 

To some sweet wife : 
It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' my breast, 

A' to the life. 

I've scarce heard ought describ'd sao weel, 
What gen'roup, manly bosoms feel; 
Thought I, 'can this be Pope, or Steele, 

Or Beattie's wark!' 
They laid me 'twas an odd kind chiel 

About Muirkirk. 

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, 
And sae about him there I spier'd, 
Then a' that ken'd him round declar'd 

He had ingine, 
That nane excell'd it, few cam near't, 

It was sae fine. 

That set him to a pint of ale; 

An' either douce or merry tale, 

Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel', 

Or witty catches, 
'Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale, 

He had few matches. 

Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith, 

Tho' 1 should pawn my pleugh and graith, 

Or die a cadger pownie's death, 

At some dyke-back, 
A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith 

To hear your crack. 

But, first an' foremost, I should tell, 
Amaist as soon as I could spell, 
I to the crambo-jingle fell, 

Tho' rude an' rough, 
Yet crooning to a body's sel', 

Does weel eneugh. 

I am nae poet, in a sense. 

But just a rhymer, like, by chance, 

An' hae to learning nae pretence, 

Yet, what the matter . 
Whene'er ray muse does on me glance, 

I jingle at her. 

Your critic-folk may cock their nose, 
And say, ' how can you e'er propose 
You wha ken hardly verse f rat prose, 

To mak' a sang?' 
But, by your leaves, my learned foes, 

Ye're maybe wrang. 

What's a' your jargon o' your schools. 
Your Latin names for horns an' stools; 
If honest nature made yuu fools, 

What sairs your grammars ? 
Ye'd better ta'en up spades and shools. 
Or knappin-hammers. 

A set o' dull, conceited hashes, 
Confuse their brains in college classes .' 
They gang in stirks, and come out asses, 

Plain truth to speak ; 
An' syne they think to climb Parnassus 

By dint o' Greek ! 



Gie me a spark o' Nature's fire, 
That's a' the learning I desire ; 
Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire 

At pleugh or cart, 
My Muse, tho' hamely in attire. 

May touch the heart. 

for a spunk o' Mian's glee, 

Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee. 
Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be. 

If I can hit it ! 
That would be lear eneugh for me, 

If 1 could get it. 

Now, Sir, if ye hae friends enow, 
Tho' real friends, I b'lieve, are few, 
Yet, if your catalogue be fu', 

I'se no insist. 
But gif ye want ae friend that's true, 

I'm on your list. 

1 winna blaw about mysel' ; 
As ill I like my fau'ts to tell ; 

But friends, and folk that wish me well. 

They sometimes roose me 

Tho' I maun own, as monie still 

As sair abuse me. 

There's ae weefaut they whyles lay to me, 

I like the lasses — Gude forgie me I 

For monie aplack they wheedle frae me. 

At dance or fair ; 
Maybe some ither thing they gie me 

They weel can spare. 

But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair, 
I should be proud to meet you there ; 
We'se gie ae night's discharge to care, 

If we forgather. 
An' hae a swap o' rhymin'-ware 

Wi' ane anither. 

The four-gill caup, we'se gar him clatter. 

An' kirsen him wi' reekin' water ; 

Syne we'll sit down an' tak' our whitter, 

To cheer our heart; 
An' faith, we'se be acquainted better 

Before we part. 

Awa, ye selfish, war'ly race, 

Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace, 

Ev'n love an' friendship, should gie place 

To catch-the-plack ! 
I dinna like to see your face, 

Nor hear your crack. 

But ye whom social pleasure charms, 
Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, 
Who hold your heing on the terms, 

' Each aid the others,' 
Come to my bowl, come to my arms, 

My friends, my brothers ! 

But to conclude my lang epistle. 

As my auld pen's worn to the grissle ; 

Twa lines Irae you wad gar me fissle. 

Who am, most fervent, 
While I can either sing, or whissle. 

Your friend and servant. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



i53 



TO THE SAME. 

April 21st, 1785. 

While new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake, 
An' pownies reek in pleugh or braik, 
This hour on e'enin's edge I take, 

To own I'm debtor 
To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik, 

For his kind letter. 

Forjesket sair, with weary legs, 
Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs, 
Or dealing thro' amang the naigs 

Their ten-hours bite, 
My awkart muse sair pleads and begs, 

I wouldna write. 

The tapetless, ramfeezl'd hizzie, 
She's saft at best, and something lazy, 
Quo' she, ' ye ken, we've been sae busy, 

This month an' mair. 
That trowth my head is grown right dizzic. 

An' something sair.' 

Her dowfF excuses pat me mad ; 

* Conscience,' says 1, *ye thowlessjad! 

I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud, 

This very night ; 
So dinnaye aflfront your trade, 

But rhyme it right. 

Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, 
Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, 
Roose you sae weel for your deserts, 

in terms sae friendly, 
Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts, 

An' thank him kindly !' 

Sae I gat paper in a blink, 

An' down gaed stumpie in the ink: 

Quoth I, ' before I sleep a wink, 

I vow I'll close it; 
An' if ye winna mak' it clink. 

By Jove I'll prose it ! 

Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether 
In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither. 
Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither, 

Let time mak' proof j 
But I shall scribble down some blether 

Just clean aff-loof. 

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp, 
Tho' fortune use you hard and sharp ; 
Come, kittle up your muiriand harp 

Wi' gleesome touch ! 
Ne'er mind how fortune waft an' warp; 

She's but a b-tch. 

She's gien me monie a jirt an' fleg, 
Sin' I could striddle owre a ri^; 
But, by the L— d, tho' I should beg, 

Wi' lyart pow, 
I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg, 

As lang's I dow ! 

Now comes the sax an' twentieth simmer 
I've seen the bud upo' the timmer. 
Still persecuted by the limmer 

Frae year to year ; 



But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, 
/, Rob, am here. 

Do ye envy the city Gent, 

Behint a kist to lie and sklent. 

Or purse-proud, big wi' cent, per cent. 

And muckle wame, 
In some bit brugh to represent 

A Bailie's name ? 

Or is't the paughty, feudal Thane, 
Wi' ruffl'd sark an' glancing cane, 
Wha thinks himsel' nae sheep-shank bane, 

But lordly stalks. 
While caps and bonnets aff are taen. 

As by he walks ? 

' O Thou wha gies us each guid gift ! 
Gie me o' wit an' sense a lift, 
Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift, 

Thro' Scotland wide ; 
Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift. 

In a' their pride !' 

Were this the charter of our state, 
' On pain o' hell be rich an' great,' 
Damnation then would be our fate. 

Beyond remead ; 
But, thanks to Heav'n ! that's no the gate 

We learn our creed. 

For thus the royal mandate ran. 
When first the human race began, 
' The social, friendly, honest man, 

Whate'er he be, 
'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan. 

And none but he!* 

mandate glorious and divine ! 
The ragged followers of the Nine, 
Poor, thoughtless devils! yet may shine 

In glorious light, 
While sordid sons of Mammon's line 
Are dark as night. 

Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' growl, 
Their worthless nievefu' of a soul 
May in some future carcase howl, 

The forest's fright ; 
Or in some day-detesting owl 

May shun the light. 

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, 
To reach their native, kindred skies, 
And sing their pleasures, hopes, an' joys, 

In some mild sphere, 
Still closer knit in friendship's ties 

Each passing year. 

TO W. S****'^N, 

OCHILTREE. 

May, 1785. 

1 gat your letter, winsome Willie; 

Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie j 
Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly. 
An' unco vain, 



64 



BURNS S POEMS. 



Should I believe, my coaxin' billie, 

Your flatterin' strain. 

But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, 
I sud be laith to think ye hinted 
Ironic satire, sidelins sklented 

On my poor Musie ; 
Tho' in sic phraisin' terms ye've penn'd it, 

I scarce excuse ye. 

My senses wad be in a creel, 
Should I but dare a hope to speel, 
Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilhertfield, 

The braes o' fame ; 
Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel, 

A deathless name ! 

(O Fergusson ! thy glorious parts 

111 suited law's dry, mussty arts ! 

My curse upon your whunstane hearts. 

Ye E'nbrugh Gentry ! 
The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes, 

Wad stow'd his pantry !) 

Yet when a tale comes i' my head, 

Or lasses gie my heart a screed. 

As whyles they're like to be my dead, 

(O sad disease !) 
I kittle up my rustic reed ; 

It gies me ease. 

Auld Coila now may fidge fu* fain, 

She's gotten Poets o' her ain, 

Chiel's wha their chanters winna hain, 

But tune their lays, 
Till echoes a' resound again 

Her weel-sung praise. 

Nae poet thought her worth his while 
To set her name in measur'd style ; 
She lay like some unkenn'd-of isle 

Beside Jiew Holland^ 
Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil 

Besouth Magellan. 

Ramsey an' famous Fergusson 
Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon ; 
Yarrow an' Tweed, to monie a tune, 

Owre Scotland rings, 
While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, 

Nae body sings. 

Th' Ilissus,Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, 
Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line ! 
But, Willie, set your fit to mine. 

An' cock your crest, 
We'll gar our streams an' burnies shine 

Up wi' the best. 

We'll sing auld Coila'' s plains an' fells. 
Her muirs red-brown wi' heather bells, 
Her banks an' braes, her dens and dells, 

Where glorious Wallace 
Aft bure the gree, as story tells, 

Frae southron billies. 

At Wallace'B name what Scottish blood 
But boils up in a spring-tide flood ! 
Oft have our fearless fathers strode 
By ^fWiacc's side, 



Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod. 
Or glorious dy'd. 

O, sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods, 
When lintwhites chant amang the buds, 
And jinkin' hares, in amorous wbids, 

Their loves enjoy. 
While thro' the braes the cushat croods 

Wi' wailfu' cry ! 

Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me 
When winds rave thro' the naked tree ; 
Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree 

Are hoary gray ; 
Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, 

Dark'ning the day ! 

O Nature ! a' thy shews an' forms 

To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms ! 

Whether the simmer kindly warms 

Wi' life an' light. 
Or winter howls, in gusty storms, 

The lang dark night I 

The Muse, nae poet ever fand her, 
Till by himsel' he learn'd to wander, 
Adown some trotting burn's meander, 
An' no think lang ; 

sweet ! to stray an' pensive ponder 

A heart-felt sang ! 

The warly race may drudge an' drive, 
Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an' strive, 
Let me fair Nature's face descrive, 

And I, wi' pleasure, 
Shall let the busy grumbling hive 

Bum owre their treasure. 

Fareweel, * my rhyme-composing brither '." 
We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither: 
Now let us lay our heads thegither, 

In love fraternal : 
May Envy wallop in a tether. 

Black flend, infernal ! 

While highlandmen hate tolls and taxes ; 
While muirlan' herds like guid fat braxies; 
While terra firma, on her axis 

Diurnal turns. 
Count on a friend, in faith an' practice, 

In Robert Burns. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

My memory's no worth a preen ; 

1 had amaist forgotten clean, 

Ye bade me write you what they mean 
By this New-Light,* 

'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been 
Maist like to fight. 

In days when mankind were but callans 

At grammar, logic, an' sic talents. 

They took nae pains their speech to balance. 

Or rules to gie. 
But spak' their thoughts in plain, braid Lal- 
lans, 

Like you or me. 

* See note, p, 41. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



65 



In thae auld times, they thought the moon, 
Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon, 
Wore by degrees, till her last roon, 

Gaed past their viewing, 
An' shortly after she was done, 

They gat a new ane. 

This past for certain, undisputed ; 

It ne'er cam' i' their heads to doubt it, 

Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it. 

An' ca'd it wrang ; 
An' muckle din there was about it, 

Baith loud and lang. 

Sorae herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, 
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk ; 
For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk, 

An' out o' sight. 
An' backlins-comin, to the leuk, 

She grew mair bright. 

This was deny'd, it was affirmed ; 

The herds an' kissels were alarm'd ; 

The rev'rend grey-beards rav'd and storm'd, 

That beardless laddies 
Should think they better were inform'd 

Than their auld daddies. 

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; 

Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks ; 

An' monie a fallow jrat his licks, 

Wi' hearty crunt ; 
A'n' some, to learn them for their tricks, 

Were liang'd an' brunt. 

This game was play'd in monie lands. 
An' auld-light caddies bure sic hands, 
That faith, the youngsters took the sands 

Wi' nimble shanks, 
The lairds forbade, by strict commands, 

Sic bluidy pranks. 

But new-light herds gat sic a cowe. 
Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an'-stowe, 
Till now aniaist on ev'ry knowe 

Ye'll find ane plac'd ; 
An' some, their new-light fair avow, 

Just quite barefac'd. . 

Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin' 
Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin' 
Mysel' I've even seen them grcetin' 

Wi' girnin' spite. 
To hear the moon sae sadly lied on 

By word an' write. 

But shortly they will cowe the louns ! 
Some auld-light herds in neebor towns 
Are mind't, in things they ca' halloons. 

To tak' a flight, 
An' stay a month amang the moons, 

An' sec them right. 

Guid observation they will gie them; 

An' when, the auld mooii's gaun to lea'e them, 

The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them. 

Just i' their pouch, 
An' when the neio-light billies soe them, 

I think they'll crouch '. 

9 



Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter 

Is mie thing but a * moonshine matter ;' 

But tho' dull prose-folk Latin splatter 

In logic tulzie, 
I hope, we bardies ken some better 

Than mind sic brulzie. 

EPISTLE TO J. R*«*^*»^, 

ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. 

rough, rude, ready-witted R^* ****)♦ *^ 
The wale o' cocks for fun and drinkin' ! 
There's mony godly folks are thinkin'. 

Your dreams* an' tricks 
Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin', 

Straught to auld Nick's. 

Ye liae sae monie cracks an' cants, 
And in your wicked, drucken rants, 
Ye mak' a devil o' the saunts, 

An' fill them fou ; 
And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, 

Are a' seen thro'. 

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! 
That holy robe, O dinna tear it ! 
Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it, 

The lads in black ! 
But your curst wit, when it comes near it, 

Rives't air tlieir back. 

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing, 
Its just the hlue-goivn badge an' claithing 
O' saunts; tak' that, ye lea'e them naething 

To kei"; them by, 
Frae ony unregencrate heathen 

Like you or I. 

I've sent you here some rhyming ware, 
A' that I bargain'd for an' mair ; 
Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare, 

I will expect 
Von sang\, ye'll sen't wi' cannie care 

And no neglect. 

Tho', faith, sma' heart hae I to sing ; 
My muse dow scarcely spread her wing ! 
I've played mysel' a bonnie spring, 

An' danc'd my fill ! 
I'd better gaen an' sair'd the king 

At Bunker^s Hill. 

'Twas ae night lately in my fun, 

1 gaed a roving wi' the gun. 

An" brought Kpaitrick to the grun, 

A bonaie hen ! 
And, as the twilight was begun. 

Thought nane wad ken 

The poor wee thing was little hurt ; 

I straikit it a wee for sport. 

Ne'er thinkin' they wad fash me for't ; 

But, deil-ma-care ! 
Somebody tells the poacher-court 

The hale affair. 



* A certain humorous dream of his was then 
making a noise in the country-side. 

f A song he had promised the Author. . 



66 



BURNS S POEMS. 



Some auld us'd hands had ta'en a note, 
That sic a hen had got a shot ; 
1 was suspected for the plot ; 

I scorn'd to lie ; 
So gat the whissle o' my groat, 

An' pay't the fee. 

But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, 
An' by my pouther an' my hail, 
An' by my hen, an' by her tail, 

I vow an' swear ! 
The game shall pay, o'er rauir an' dale, 

For this, niest year. 

As Boon's the clockin-time is by, 
An' the wee pouts begin to cry, 
L — d, I'se hae sportin' by an' by, 

For my gowd guinea; 
Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye 

For't, in Virginia. 

Trowth, they had muckle for to blame ! 
'Twas neither broken wing nor limb, 
But twa-three draps about the wame 

Scarce thro' the feathers ; 
An' baith a yellow George to claim, 

An' thole their blethers! 

It pits me ay as mad's a hare ; 

So I can rhyme nor write nae mair j 

But pennyworths aorain is fair. 

When time's expedient : 
Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, 

Your most obedient. 



WRITTEN IN 

FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE, 

ON NITH-SIDE. 

Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be Ihou clad in russet weed. 
Be thou deck'd in silken stole, 
Grave these counsels on thy soul. 

Life is but a day at most, 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost; 
Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour, 
Fear not clouds will alv^ays low'r. 

As youth and love with sprightly dance, 
Beneath thy morning star advance, 
Pleasure with her siren air 
May delude the thoughtless pair ; 
Let prudence bless enjoyment's cup. 
Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. 

As thy day grows warm and high, 
Life's meridian flaming nigh. 
Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? 
Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale? 
Check thy climbing step, e^ate, 
Evils lurk in felon wait : 
Dangers, eagle-pinioned, bold, 
Soar around each cliffy hold, 
While cheerful peace, with linnet song, 
Chants the lowly dells among. 



As the shades of evening close, 
Beck'ning thee to long repose ', 
As life itself becomes disease, 
Seek the chimney-neuk of ease. 
There ruminate with sober thought, 
On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought ; 
And teach the sportive younkers round. 
Saws of experience, sage and sound. 
Say, man's true, genuine estimate, 
The grand criterion of his fate, 
Is not, art thou high or low .-' 
Did thy fortune ebb or flow .'* 
Did many talents gild thy span ? 
Or frugal nature grudge thee one ? 
Tell them, and press it on their mind, 
As thou thyself must shortly find. 
The smile or frown of awful Heav'n 
To virtue or to vice is giv'n. 
Say, to be just, and kind, and wise. 
There solid self-enjoyment lies ; 
That foolish, selfish, faithless ways. 
Lead to the wretched, vile, and base. 

Thus resigned and quiet, creep 
To the bed of lasting sleep ; 
Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, 
Night, where dawn shall never break, 
Till future life, future no more, 
To light and joy the good restore. 
To light and joy unknown before. 

Stranger, go ! Heav'n be thy guide ! 
Quod the beadsman of Nith-side. 

ELEGY ON CAPT. M. HENDERSON. 

A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR 

HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM 

ALMIGHTY GOD. 



But now his radiant course is run, 
For Matthew's course was bright; 

His soul was like tlie glorious sun, 
A matchless, Heav'nly Light. 



O Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ! 
The meikle devil wi' a woodie 
Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie. 

O'er hurcheon hides, 
And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie 

Wi' thy auld sides ! 

He's gane, he's gane ! he's frae us torn. 

The ae best fellow e'er was born ! 

Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel' shall mourn 

By wood and wild. 
Where, liaply, pity strays forlorn, 

Frae man exil'd. 

Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns, 
That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! 
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing earns, 

Where echo slumbers ! 
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, 

My wailing numbers ! 



BURNS S POEMS. 



67 



Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens ! 
Ye haz'liy shawa and briery dens ! 
Ye burnies, wimplin' down your glens, 

Wi' toddlin' din, 
Or foaming strong, wi' hasty stens, 

Frae lin to lin. 

Mourn, little harebells o'er the lee j 
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see ; 
Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie, 

In scented bow'rs ; 
Ye roses on your thorny tree, 

The first o' flow'rs. 

At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade 

Droops with a diamond at its head, 

At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed, 

I' th' rustling gale, 
Ye maukins whiddin' thro' the glade. 

Come join my wail. 

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood ; 
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud ; 
Ye curlews calling thro' a clud ; 

Ye whistling plover ; 
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood ; 

He's gane for ever 

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals, 
Ye fisher herons, watching eels ; 
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 

Circling the lake ; 
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 

Rair for his sake. 

Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' day, 
'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay ; 
And when ye wing your annual way 

Frae our cauld shore, 
Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay, 

Wham we deplore. 

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r. 

In some auld tree, or eldriech tow'r, 

What time the moon, wi' silent glow'r, 

Sets up her horn, 
Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour 

Till waukrife morn ! 

O rivers, forests, hills, and plains ! 
Oft have ye heard my cantie strains : 
Jiut now, what else for me remains 

But tales of woe ; 
And frae my een the drapping rains 

Maun ever fliow. 

Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year ! 
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear : 
Thou, simmer, while each corny spear 

Shoots up its head, 
Thy gay, green flow'ry tresses shear, 

For him that's dead! 

Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, 
In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! 
Thou, winter, hurling thro' the air 

The roaring blast, 
Wide o'er the naked world declare 

The worth we've lost ! 



Mourn him, thou sun, great source of Ught ! 
Mourn, empress of the silent night ! 
And you, ye twinkling starnies bright. 

My Matthew mourn ! 
For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight, 

Ne'er to return. 

O Henderson ! the man ! the brother ! 
And art thou gone, and gone for ever ! 
And hast thou crost that unknown river. 

Life's dreary bound ! 
Like thee, where shall I find another, 

The world around ! 

Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye Great, 
In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! 
But by thy honest turf I'll wait. 

Thou man of worth ! 
And weep the ae best fellow's fate 

E'er lay in earth. 



THE EPITAPH. 

Stop, passenger ! my story's brief; 

And truth I shall relate, man ; 
I tell nae common tale o' grief, 

For Matthew was a great man. 

If thou uncommon merit hast. 
Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man ; 

A look of pity hither cast. 
For Matthew was a poor man. 

If thou a noble sodger art, 

That passest by this grave, man, 

There moulders here a gallant heart ; 
For Matthew was a brave man. 

If thou on men, their works and ways. 
Canst throw uncommon light, man ; 

Here lies wha weel had won thy praise, 
For Matthew was a bright man. 

If thou at friendship's sacred ca' 
Wad life itself resign, man ; 

The sympathetic tear maun fa'. 
For Matthew was a kind man. 

If thou art staunch without a stain, 
Like the unchanging blue, man ; 

This was a kinsman o' thy ain, 
For Matthew was a true man, 

If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire. 
And ne'er guid wine did fear, man ; 

This was thy billie, dam, and sire. 
For Matthew was a queer man. 

If ony whiggish whingin' sot. 
To blame poor Matthew dare, man ; 

May dool and sorrow be his lot, 
For Matthew was a rare man. 



LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF 
SCOTS, 

ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. 

Now Nature hangs her mantle green 
On every blooming tree, 



6S 



BUBNS'S POEMS. 



And spreads her slieets o' daisies lute 

Out-owre the grassy lea : 
Now PhcEbus cheers the chrystal streams, 

And glads the azure skies ; 
But nought can glad the weary wight 

That fast in durance lies. 

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn, 

Aloft on dewy wing ; 
The merle, in his noontide bow'r, 

Makes woodland echoes ring ; 
The mavis mild wi' many a note, 

Sings drowsy day to rest : 
In love and freedom they rejoice, 

Wi' care and thrall opprcbt. 

Now blooms the lily by the bank, 

The primrose down the brae ; 
The hawthorn's budding in the glen, 

And milk-white is the slae : 
The meanest hind in fair Scotland 

May rove their sweets amang ; 
But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, 

Maun lie in prison Strang. 

I was the Queen o' bonnie France, 

"Where happy I hae been, 
Fu' lightly rose I in the morn, 

As blythe lay down at e'en : 
And I'm the sov'reign of Scotland, 

And monie a traitor ther-e ; 
Yet here I lie in foreign bands. 

And never-ending care. 

But as for thee, thou false woman. 

My sister and my fae. 
Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword 

That thro' thy soul shall gae : 
The weeping blood in woman's breast 

Was never known to thee ; 
Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe 

Frae woman's pitying e'e. 

My son ! my son ! may kinder stars 

Upon thy fortune shine ; 
And may those pleasures gild thy reign. 

That ne'er wad blink on mine ! 
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes. 

Or turn their hearts to thee : 
And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, 

Remember him for me ! 

Oh ! soon to me, may summer-suns 

Nae mair light up the morn ! 
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds 

Wave o'er the yellow corn ! 
And in the narrow house of death 

Let winter round me rave ; 
And the next flow'rs that deck the spring. 

Bloom on my peaceful grave ! 

TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. 

OF FINTRA. 

Late crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg. 
About to beg a pass for leave to beg ; 
Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest, 
(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest :) 



Will generous GrahamVist to his Poet's wall .^ 
(It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her 

tale,) 
And hear him curse thclighthe first survey 'd, 
And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade .'* 

Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign ; 
Of thy caprice maternal I complain : 
The lion and the bull thy care have found, 
One shakes the forests, and one spurns the 

ground : 
Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his 

shell, 
Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious guards his 

cell.— 
Thy minions, kings, defend, control, devour, 
In all th' omnipotence of rule and power. — 
Foxes and statesmen, subtle wiles ensure ; 
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure. 
Toads with their poison, doctors with their 

drug, 
The priest and hedgehog in their robes, are 

snug. 
Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, 
Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and 
darts. 
But Oh ! thou bitter step-mother and hard, 
To thy poor, fenceless, naked child — the 

Bard ! 
A thing unteachable in world's skill, 
And half an ideot too, more helpless still. 
No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun ; 
No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun ; 
No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, 
And those, aks ! not Amallhea's horn : 
No nerves olfact'ry, Mammon's trusty cur. 
Clad in rich dulness' comfortable fur, 
In naked feeling, and in aching pride, 
He bears th' unbroken blast from ev'ry side 
Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart 
And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. 

Critics — appall'd I venture on the name, 
Those cut-throat bandits in the path of fame : 
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes ; 
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. 
His heart by causeless, wanton malice 
wrung. 
By blockheads' daring, into madness stung ; 
His well-won bays, than life itself more dear, 
By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must 

wear ; 
Foil'd bleeding, tortur'd in the unequal strife. 
The hapless poet flounders on thro' life. 
Till fled each hope that once his bosom fir'd. 
And fled each muse that glorious once in- 

spir'd. 
Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age, 
Dead even resentment for his injur'd page, 
He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's 
rage ! 
So, by some hedge, the generous'steed de- 
ceas'd. 
For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast ; 
By toil and famine wore to skin and bone, 
Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son. 

O dulness ! portion of the truly blest I 
Cabn shelter'd haven of eternal rest ! 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



69 



Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes 
Of fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams. 
If mantling high she fills the golden cup, 
With sober selfish ease they sip it up ; 
Conscious the bounteous meed they well 

deserve, 
They only wonder * some folks' do not starve. 
The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog, 
And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. 
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, 
And thro' disastrous night they darkling 

grope. 
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, 
And just conclude that 'fools are fortune's 

care.' 
So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks. 
Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. 

Not so the idle muses' mad-cap train, 
Not such the working of their moon-struck 

brain ; 
In equanimity they never dwell. 
By turns in soaring heav'n, or vaulted hell. 
I dread thee, fate, relentless and severe, 
With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear ! 
Already one strong-hold of hope is lost, 
Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust ; 
(Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon appears, 
And left us darkling in a world of tears :) 
Oh ! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r ! 
Fintra, my other stay, long bless and spare ! 
Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown; 
And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down! 
May bliss domestic smooth his private path ; 
Give energy to life; and sooth his latest 

breath, 
With many a filial tear circling the bed of 
death ! 

LAMENT 

FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

The wind blew hollow frae the hills, 

By fits the suns departing beam 
Look'd on the fading yellow woods 

That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream 
Beneath a craigy steep, a bard, 

Laden with years and meikle pain, 
In loud lament bewail'd his lord. 

Whom death had all untimely ta'en. 

He lean'd him to an ancient aik. 

Whose trunk was mould'ring down with 
years; 
His locks were bleached white wi' time ! 

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ! 
And as he touch'd his trembling harp 

And as he tun'd his doleful sang, ' 
rh^ winds, lamenting thro' their caves, 

To echo bore the notes alang. 

' Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing, 
^The reliques of the vernal quire ! 
te woods that shed on a' the winds 
The honours of the aged year ! 



A few short months, and glad and gay 
Again ye'li charm the ear and e'e ; 

But nocht in a' revolving time 
Can gladness bring again to me. 

" I am a bending aged tree. 

That long has stood the wind and rain : 
But now has come a cruel blast, 

And my last hold of earth is gane : 
Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, 

Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom ; 
But I maun lie before the storm, 

And ithers plant them in my room. 

" I've seen sae mony changefu' years, 

On earth I am a stranger grown ; 
I wander in the ways of men, 

Alike nnknowing and unknown 
Unheard, unpitied, unreliev'd, 

I bear alane my lade o' care. 
For silent, low, on beds o' dust, 

Lie a' that would my sorrows share. 

^' And last (the sum of a' my griefs ! 

My noble master lies in clay ; 
The flow'r amang our barons bold, 

His country's pride, his country's stay 
In weary being now I pine, 

For a' the life of life is dead. 
And hope has left my aged ken, 

On forward wing for ever fled. 

" Awake thy last sad voice, my harp ! 

The voice of woe and wild despair ! 
Awake, resound thy latest lay, 

Then sleep in silence evermair ! 
And thou, my last, best, only friend, 

That fillest an untimely tomb, 
Accept this tribute from the bard 

Thou brought from fortune's mirkest 
gloom. 

" In poverty's low barren vale. 

Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round ; 
Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye. 

No ray of fame was to be found : 
Thou found'st me, like the morning sun 

That melts the fogs in limpid air ; 
The friendless bard, and rustic song, 

Became alike thy fostering care. 

" Oh ! why has worth so short a date, 

While villains ripen gray with time ? 
Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great. 

Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime ! 
Why did I live to see that day .? 

A day to me so full of woe ! 
Oh ! had I met the mortal shaft 

Which laid my benefactor low ! 

'* The bridegroom may forget the bride 

Was made his wedded wife yestreen ; 
The monarch may forget the crown 

That on his head an hour has been ; 
The mother may forget the child 

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee • 
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, 

And a' that thou hast done for me !" 



70 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



LINKS, SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFORD, OF 

WHITEFORD, BART. WITH THE FOREGOING 

POEM. 

Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st, 
Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought 

earthly fear'st, 
To thee this votive ofFering I impart, 
The tearful tribute of a broken heart. 
The friend thou valued'st, T the patron lo v d ; 
His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd. 
We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone, 
And tread the dreary path to that dark world 

unknown. 

ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, 

ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROX- 
BURGHSHIRE, WITH BAYS. 

While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, 
Unfolds her tender mantle green, 

Or pranks the sod in frolic mood. 
Or tunes Eolian strains between : 

While Summer with a matron grace 
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, 

Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace 
The progress of the spiky blade : 

While Autumn, benefactor kind. 
By Tweed erects his aged head. 

And sees, with self-approving mind, 
Each creature on his bounty fed : 

While maniac Winter rages o'er 
The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, 



Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, 
Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows ; 

So long, sweet Poet of the year, 

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won, 
While Scotia with exulting tear. 

Proclaims that Thompson was her son. 



ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE 

LIMP BY ME, WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST 
SHOT AT. 

Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye I 
May never pity sooth thee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart I 

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, 
The bitter little that of life remains : 
No more the thickening brakes and ver- 
dant plains. 

To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wont- 

fid rsst 

No more of rest, but now thy dying bed I 

The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy 

head, 

The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. 

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawji. 

And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy 
hapless fate. 





TAM 0' SHANTER. 

A TALE. 
Of Brownyis and Bogilis full is this Buke. 

Gawin Douglas. 
When chapman billies leave the street, 
And drouthy neebors, neebors meet, 
As market-days are wearing late, 
An' folk begin to tak the gate, 
While we sit bousing at liie nappy, 
An' getting fou and unco happy, 
We think na on the lang Scots miles, 
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles, 
That lie between us and our hame, 
Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame, 
Gath'ring her brows, like gath'ring storm, 
Nursing her wrath t<^eep it warm. 

This truth fand honest Tarn o' Skanter, 
As he, fra Ayr ae night did canter 
( Auld Ayr wham ne'er a town surpasses. 
For honest men and bonie lasses. 

O Tarn! had'st thou but been sae wise. 
As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 
She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellura, 
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum, 
That frae November till October, 
Ae market-day thou was na sober,^ 
That ilka melder, wi' the miller, 
Thou sat as long as thou had siller; 
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, 
The smith and thee got roaring fou on, 
That at the L — d's house e'en on Sunday, 
Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday, 
She prophesy'd, that late or soon, 
Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doom; 
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, 
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet, 
To think how monie counsels sweet, 



How monie lengthen'd sage advices. 
The husband frae the wife despises ! 

But to our tale: Ae market night, 
Tarn had got planted unco right : 
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; 
And at his elbow, souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty drouthy crony; 
Tarn lo'ed him like a vera brither ; 
They had been fou for weeks thegither. 
The night drave on wi* sangs and clatter; 
And ay the ale was growing better; 
The landlady and Tarn grew gracious , 
Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious : 
The souter tauld his queerest stories ; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus: 
The storm without might rair and rustle. 
Tarn did na mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy. 
E'en drown'd himsel' amang the nappy; 
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure. 
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure : 
Kings may be blest, but Tarn was glorious, 
O'er a' the illso' life victorious. 

But pleasures are like poppies spread 
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed ; 
Or, like the snow-falls in the river, 
A moment white — then melts forever, 
Or, like the borealis race, 
That flit ere you can point their place ; 
Or, like the rainbow's lovely form 
Evanishing amid the storm. — 
Nae man can tether time or tide ; 
The hour approaches Tarn maun ride ; 
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, 
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; 
And sic a night he taks the road in. 
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 



72 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; 
The rattling show'rs rose on the blast; 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ; 
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellowed ; 
That night, a child might understand, 
The Deil had business on his hand, 

Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg, 
A better never lifted leg, 
Tarn skelpit on thro' dub and mire. 
Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; 
Whiles handing fast his guid blue bonnet ; 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet ; 
Whiles glowring round wi' prudent cares, 
Lest bogles catch him unawares ; 
Kirk-AUoway was drawing nigh, 
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. — 

By this time he was cross the ford, 
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd ; 
And past the' birks and meikle stane, 
Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane ; 
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 
Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn ; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel. — 
Before him Doon pours all her floods ; 
The doubling storm roars thro' tho woods ; 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; 
Near and more near the thunders roll ; 
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
Kirk-AUoway seem'd in a bleeze ; 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing ; 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing. — 

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 
What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! 
Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil; 
Wi' usquebae, we'll face the devil f — 
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, 
Fair play, he car'dna deils a boddle. 
But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, 
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, 
She ventur'd forward on the light ; 
And, vow ! Tarn saw an unco sight ! 
Warlocks and V^^itches in a dance ; 
Nae cotillion brent new frae France, 
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, 
Put life and mettle in their heels. 
A winnock bunker in the east. 
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast ; 
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, 
To gie them music was his charge : 
He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl, 
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. — 
Coffins stood round like open presses. 
That shaw'd tho dead in their last dresses ; 
And by some devilish cantrip slight. 
Each in its cauld hand held a light, — 
By which heroic Tarn was able 
To note upon the haly table, 
A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; 
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns ; 
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, 
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; 
Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red rusted ; 
Five scymetars, wi' murder crusted ; 
A garter, which a babe had strangled ; 
A knife, a father's throat had mangled, 



Whom his ain son o' life bereft, 
The grey heirs yet stack to the heft ; 
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', 
Which even to name wad be unlawfu'. 

As Tarmnie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious, 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : 
The piper loud and louder blew ; 
The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they 

cleekit. 
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, 
And coost her duddies to the wark, 
And linket at it in her eark ! 

Now Tam, O 7am .' had they been queans 
A' plump and strapping in their teens ; 
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen. 
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen ! 
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, 
I wad hae gi'en them alf my hurdies, 
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies ! 

But wither'd beldams auld and droll, 
Rigwiddie hags wad spean a foal, 
Lowping an' flinging on a cummock, 
I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 

But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' braw- 
lie. 
There was ae winsome wench and walie, 
That night inlisted in the core 
(Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore ! 
For mony a beast to dead she shot, 
And perish'd mony a bonnie boat. 
And shook baith meikle corn and bear, 
And kept the country-side in fear,) 
Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn. 
That while a lassie she had worn, 
In longitude tho' sorely scanty. 
It was her best, and she was vauntie. — 
Ah.' little kenn'd thy rev'rend grannie, 
That sark she coft for her wee J^annie, 
Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches,) 
Wad evergrac'd a dance of witches ! 

But here my muse her wing mauncour j 
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r ; 
To sing how JVannie lap and flang. 
(A souple jade she was and Strang) 
And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd, 
And thought his very een enrich'd ; 
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain. 
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main 
Till first ae caper, syne anither, 
Tam tint his reason a' thegithor, 
And roars out "Weel done, Cutty-sark !" 
And in an instant all was dark ; 
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke. 
When plundering herds assail their byke ; 
As open pussie's mortal foes. 
When, pop ! she starts, before their nose ; 
As eager runs the market-crowd. 
When, " Catch the thief!" resounds aloud ; 
So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 
Wi' mony an eldriech skreech and hallow. 

Ah, Tam.' ah, Tam.' thou'll get thy fairin'! 
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin' I 



BURIMS S POEMS. 



75 



In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin' ! 
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! 
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
And win the key-stane* o' the brig ; 
There at them thou thy tail may tos3, 
A running stream they dare na cross. 
But ere the Key-stane she could make, 
The fient a tail she had to shake ! 
For JVannie, far before the rest, 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle ; 
But little wist she Maggie^s mettle — 
Ae spring brought off her master hale, 
But left behind her ain gray tail : 
The carlin claught her by the rump. 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 
Ilk man and mother's son, tak' heed : 
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, 
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, 
Think, ye may buy the joys ower dear. 
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare. 



ON THE LATE 

CAPT. GROSE'S PEREGRINATIONS 
THROUGH SCOTLAND, 

COLLECTING THE ANTrQ,UITIES OF THAT 
KINGDOM. 

Hear, Land o' cakes, and brither Scots, 
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's } 
If there's a hole in a' your coats, 

I rede you tent it : 
A chiel's amang you taking notes. 

And, faith, he'll prent it. 

If in your bounds ye chance to light 

Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight, 

O' stature short, but genius bright. 

That's he, mark weel — 
And wow ! he has an unco slight 

O' cauk and keel. 

By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,t 

Or kirk deserted by its riggin. 

It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in 

Some eldriech part, 
Wi' deils, they say, L — d save's, colleaguin' ! 

At some black art. — 

Ilk ghaist that haunts old ha' or chamer. 

Ye gypsy-gang that deal in glamor, 

And you, deep read in hell's black grammar. 

Warlocks and witches ; 
Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer. 

Ye midnight b es. 



* It is a well known fact, that witches, or any 
evil spirits, have no power to follow a poor wight 
any farther than the middle of the next running 
stream. It may be proper likewise to mention 
to the benighted traveller, that when he falls in 
with bogles, whatever danger may be in his go- 
ing forward, there is much more hazard in turn- 
ing back. 

f Vide his Antiquities of Scotland. 

10 



It's tauld lie was a Bodger bred, 
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled ; 
But now he's quat the spurtle blade, 

And dog-skin wallet, 
And ta'en the — Antiquarian trade, 

I think they ca' it. 

He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets ; 
Rusty airn caps and jinglin' jackets,* 
Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets, 

A towmont guid ; 
And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets, 

Before the Flood. 

Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ; 
Auld Tubalcain's fire-shool and fender ; 
That which distinguished the gender 

O' Balaam's ass ; 
A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, 

Weel shod wi' brass. 

Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu' gleg, 

The cut of Adam's philibeg ; 

The knife that nicket Abel's craig, 

He'll prove vou fully, 
It was a faulding jocteleg. 

Or lang-kail gullic. — 

But wad ye see him in his glee. 
For meikle glee and fun has he, 
Then set him down, and twa or thee 

Guid fellows wi' him ; 
And port, port J shine thou a wee. 

And then ye'll see him ! 

Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose ! 

Thou art a dainty chi'eld, O Grose ! 

Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose. 

They sair misca' thee ; 
I d take the rascal by the nose, 

Wad say, shame fa' thee ! 



TO MISS CRUIKSHANKS, 

A VERY YOUNG LADY. 

WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK PRESENTED 
TO HER BY THE AUTHOR. 

Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay, 
Blooming in thy early May, 
Never may'st thou, lovely flow'r, 
Chilly shrink in sleety shovv'r ! 
Never Boreas' hoary path. 
Never Eurus' pois'nous breath, 
Never baleful stellar lights, 
Taint thee with untimely blights ! 
Never, never reptile thief 
Riot on thy virgin leaf! 
Nor even Sol too fiercely view 
Thy bosom blushing still vi^ith dew ! 

May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem, 
Richly deck thy native stem ; 
Till some ev'ning, sober, calm, 
Drooping dews, and breathing balm, 



* Vide his Treatise on Ancient Armour and 
^^ eapons. 



74 



BURNS S POEMS. 



While all around the woodland rings, 
And every bird thy requiem sings ; 
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound. 
Shed thy dying honours round. 
And resign to parent earth 
The loveliest form she e'er gave birth. 



ON READING, IN A NEWSPAPER THE DEATH OF 

JOHN M'LEOD, ESQ. 

BROTHER TO A YOUNQ LADy, A PARTICULAR 
FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR's. 

Sad thy tale, thou idle page. 

And rueful thy alarms : 
Death tears the brother of her love 

From Isabella's arms. 

Sweetly deckt with pearly dew 

The morning rose may blow ; 
But cold successive noontide blasts 

May lay its beauties low. 

Fair on Isabella's morn 

The sun propitious smil'd ; 
But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds 

Succeeding hopes beguil'd. 

Fate oft tears the bosom cords 

That nature finest strung : 
So Isabella's heart was form'd. 

And so that heart was wrung. 

Dread omnipotence, alone, 

Can heal the wound he gave ; 
Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes, 

To scenes beyond the grave. 

Virtue's blossoms there shall blow, 

And fear no withering blast ; 
There Isabella's spotless worth 

Shall happy be at last. 



THE HUMBLE PETITION OF 

BRUAR WATER* 

TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE. 

My Lord, I know your noble ear 

Woe ne'er assails in vain ; 
Embolden'd thus, 1 beg you'll hear 

Your humble slave complain, 
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams, 

In flaming summer-pride, 
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams, 

And drink my crystal tide. 

The lightly jumping glov/rin' trouts, 

That thro' ray waters play, 
If, in their random, wanton spouts, 

They, near the margin stray ; 

* Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly pic- 
turesque and beautiful ; but their effect is much 
impaired by the wcuit of trees euid shrubs. 



If, hapless chance ! they linger lang, 

I'm scorching up to shallow, 
They're left the whitening stanes among, 

In gasping death to wallow. 

Last day I grat wi' spite and teen, 

As Poet B came by, 

That to a bard I should be seen 

Wi' half my channel dry : 
A panegyric rhyme, I ween, 

Even as I was he shor'd me ; 
But had I in my glory been. 

He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. 

Here foaming down the shelvy rocks, 

In twistling strength I rin ; 
There, high my boiling torrent smokes, 

Wild-roaring o'er a linn : 
Enjoying large each spring and well 

As nature gave them me, 
I am, altho' I say't mysel, 

Worth gaun a mile to see. 

Would then my noble master please 

To grant my highest wishes, 
He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees, 

And bonnie spreading bushes ; 
Delighted doubly then, my Lord, 

Youll wander on my banks, 
And listen niony a grateful bird 

Return you tuneful thanks. 

The sober laverock, warbling wild. 

Shall to the skies aspire ; 
The gowdspink, musick's gayest child, 

Shall sweetly join the choir : 
The black bird strong, the iintwhite clear, 

The mavis mild and mellow; 
The robin pensive autumn cheer, 

In all her locks of yellow : 

This too, a covert shall ensure, 

To shield them from the storm ; 
And coward maukin sleep secure. 

Low in her grassy form : 
Here shall the shepherd make his seat, 

To weave his crown of flow 'rs; 
Or find a sheltering safe retreat. 

From prone descending show'rs. 

And here, by sweet endearing stealth, 

Shall meet the loving pair, 
Despising worlds with all their wealth 

As empty, idle care ; 
The flow'rs shall vie in all their charms 

The hour of heav'n to grace, 
And birks extend their fi-agrant arms, 

To screen the dear embrace. 

Here haply too, at vernal dawn. 

Some musing bard may stray. 
And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, 

And misty mountain gray ; 
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam, 

Mild-chequering thro' the trees. 
Rave to my darkly-dashing stream, 

Hoarse- swelling on the breeze. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



75 



Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, | 

My lowly banks o'erspread, 
And view, deep-bending in the pool, 

Their shadow's wat'ry bed; 
Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest 

My craggy cliffs adorn ; 
And, for the little songster's nest, 

The close embow'ring thorn. 

So may old Scotia's darling hope, 

Your little angel band. 
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop 

Their honour'd native land ! 
So may thro' Albion's farthest ken, 

To social-flowing glasses, 
The grace be — " Athole's honest men, 

And Athole's bonnie lasses !" 



ON SCARING SOME WATER FOWL 

IN LOCH-TURIS, 

A WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OF OUGHTERTYRE. 

Why, ye tenants of the lake, 
For me your wat'ry haunt forsake ? 
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why 
At my presence thus you fly ? 
Why disturb your social joys, 
Parent, filial, kindred ties ? — 
Common friend to you and me, 
Nature's gifts to all are free : 
Peaceful keep your dimpHng wave. 
Busy feed, or wanton lave ; 
Or, beneath the sheltering rock. 
Bide the surging billow's shock. 

Conscious, blushing for our race, 
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace : 
Man, your proud, usurping foe, 
Would be the lord of all below ; 
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride, 
Tyrant stern to all beside. 

The eagle, from the cliffy brow, 
Marking you his prey below, 
In liis breast no pity dwells. 
Strong necessity compels. 
But man, to whom alone is giv'n 
A ray direct from pitying Heav'n, 
Glories in his heart humane — 
And creatures for his pleasure slain. 

In these savage, liquid plains. 
Only known to wand'ring swains, 
Where the mossy riv'let strays. 
Far from human haunts and ways j 
All on Nature you depend, 
And life's poor season peaceful spend. 

Or, if man's superior might 
Dare invade your native right, 
On the lofty ether borne, 
Man with all his pow'rs you scorn, 
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings, 
Other lakes and other springs ; 
And the foe you cannot brave, 
Scorn at least to be his slave. 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL 

OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE, IN THE PARLOUR 

OF THE INN AT KENMORE, TAYMODTH. 

Admiring Nature in her wildest grace, 
These northern scenes with weary feet I 

trace ; 
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, 
Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep, 
My savage journey, curious, I pursue. 
Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view.— 
The meeting cliifs each deep-sunk glen di- 
vides. 
The woods wild scatter'd, clothe their ample 

sides * 
Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong 

the hills, 
The eye with wonder and amazement fills ; 
The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride, 
The palace rising on his verdant side ; 
The lawns wood-fring'd in Nature's native 

taste ; 
The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste ; 
The arches striding o'er the new-born stream; 
The village, glittering in the noon-tide 
beam — 

tt 4t >)> -H 'H 4« « 

Poetic ardours in my bosom swell. 
Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell ; 
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; 
Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling 
floods — 

Here Poesy might wake her heav'n taught 

lyre, 
And look through nature with creative fire ; 
Here to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd, 
Misfortune's lighten d steps might wander 

wild ; 
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds. 
Find balm to soothe her bitter, rankhng 

wounds : 
Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward 

stretch her scan, 
And injur 'd Worth forget and pardon man. 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, 

STANDING BY THE FALL OP FYERS, NEAR LOCH-NESS. 

Among the heathy hills and ragged woods 
The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods ; 
Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, 
Where, through a shapeless breach, his 

stream resounds. 
As high in air the bursting torrents flow, 
As deep recoiling surges foam below. 
Prone down the rock the whitening sheet 

descends, 
And viewless echo's ear, astonish 'd, rends. 
Dim-seen, through rising mists and cease- 
less show'rs, 
The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding, low'rs. 
Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils. 
And still below the horrid cauldron boils — 



76 



BURNS S POEMS. 



OK THK 

BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD, 

BORN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF 
FAMILY DISTRESS. 

Sweet Flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love, 

And ward o' mony a pray'r, 
What heart o' stane wad thou na' move, 

Sae helpless, sweet, and fair ! 

November hirples o'er the lea, 

Chill, on thy lovely form ; 
And gane, alas ! the shelt'ring tree. 

Should shield thee frae the storm. 

May He who gives the rain to pour, 

And wings the blast to blaw, 
Protect thee frae the driving show'r, 

The bitter frost and snaw ! 

May He, the friend of woe and want. 
Who heals life's various stounds, 

Protect and guard the mother plant, 
And heal her cruel wounds ! 

But late she flourish'd, rooted fast. 

Fair on the summer morn : 
Now feebly bends she in the blast, 

Unshelter'd and forlorn. 

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, 

Unscath'd by ruffian hand ! 
And from thee many a parent stem 

Arise to deck our land ! 



SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 

A BROTHER POET.* 
AULD NEEBOR, 

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, 
For your auld-farrent, frien'ly letter ; 
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter, 

Ye speak sae fair ; 
For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter, 

Some less maun sair. 

Hale be yonr heart, hale be your fiddle ; 
Lang may your elbuck jink an' diddle, 
To cheer you thro' the weary widdle 

O' war'ly cares, 
Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle 

Your auld gray hairs. 

But, Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit ; 
I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit ; 
An' gif it's sae ye sud be lickit 

Until ye fyke ; 
Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faikit. 

Be hain't wha like. 

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, 
Rivin' the words to gar them clink ; 

* This is prefixed to the poems of David Sil- 
lar, published at Kilmarnock, 1789. 



Whyles daea't wi' love, whyleg daez't wi' 
drink, 

Wi' jads or masons ; 
An' whyles, but aye ower late, I think 

Braw sober lessons. 

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, 
Commend me to the Bardie clan ; 
Except it be some idle plan 

O' rhymin' clink, 
The devil-haet, that I sud ban ! 

They ever think. 

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o* 

livin', 
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin' ; 
But just the pouchie put the nieve in, 

An' while ought's there, 
Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin' ; 

An' fash nae mair. 

Leeze me on rhyme ! it's aye a treasure, 
My chief, amaist my only pleasure, 
At hame, a-field, at wark or leisure, 

The Muse, poor hizzie ! 
Tho' rough an' raplock be her measure, 

She's seldom lazy. 

Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie : 
The warl' may play j'ou monie a shavie ; 
But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye, 

Tho' e'er sae puir, 
Na, even tho' limpin' wi' the spavie 

Frae door to door. 

THE INVENTORY. 

IN ANSWER TO A MANDATE BT A 
SURVEYOR OF TAXES. 

Sir, as your mandate did request, 
I send you here a faithfu' list, 
My horses, servants, carts, and graith, 
To which I'm free to take my aith. 

Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, 
I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle, 
As ever drew before a pettle ; 
My hand-a-fore* a guid auld has-been, 
And wight and wilfu' a' his days seen j 
My hand-a-hiri' ,\ a guid brown filly, 
Wha aft has borne me safe frae Killie,t 
And your auld borough mony a time, 
In days when riding was nae crime : 
But ance when in my wooing pride 
I like a blockhead boost to ride, 
The wilfu' creature sae I pat to, 
(L — d, pardon a' my sins an' that too!) 
I play'd my filly sic a shavie, 
She's a' bedevil'd wi' the spavie. 
My fur-a-hin, § a guid gray beast, 
As e'er in tug or tow was trac'd : 

* The fore-horse on the left hand in the plough. 
f The hindmost on the left hand in the plough, 
i Kilmarnock. 

^ The hindmost horse on the right hand in the 
plough. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



77 



The fourth, a Highland Donald hasty, 
A d-nin'd red-wud Kilburnio blastie. 
Forby a cowt, of cowls the wale, 
As ever ran before a tail ; 
An' he be spar'd to bo a beast, 
He'll draw me fifteen pund at least. 

Wheel-carriages I hae but few, 
Three carts, and twa are fechly new ; 
An auld wheelbarrow, mair for token, 
Ae leg and baith the trams are broken ; 
I made a poker o' the spindle, 
And my auld mither brunt the trundle. 
For men, I've three mischievous boys, 
Run-deils for rantin' and for noise ; 
A gadsman ane, a threslier t'other, 
"Wee Davoc bauds the nowte in fother. 
I rule them, as I ought, discreetly, 
And often labour them completely, 
And aye on Sundays duly nightly, 
I on the questions tairge them tightly, 
Till faith wee Davoc's grown so gleg, 
(Tho' scarcely langer than my leg). 
He'll screed you aff effectual calling, 
As fast as ony in the dwalling. 
I've nane in female servant station, 
Lord keep me aye frae a' temptation ! 
I hae nae wife, and that my bliss is, 
And ye hae laid nae tax on misses ; 
For weans I'm mair than weel contented, 
Heaven sent me ane mair than I wanted ; 
My sonsie smirking, dear-bought Bess, 
She stares the daddie in her face, 
Enough of ought ye like but grace. 
But her, my bonnie, sweet, wee lady, 
I've said enough for her already, 
And if ye'tax her or her mither. 
By the L — d ye'se get them a' thegither ! 

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, 
Nae kind of license out I'm taking : 
Frae this time forth, I do declare, 
I'se ne'er ride horse nor hizzie mair ; 
Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle, 
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ; 
I've sturdy stumps, the Lord be thankit ! 
And a' my gates on foot I'll shank it. 
The Kirk an' you may tak' you that, 
It puts but little in your pat ; 
Sae dinna scrieve me in your buke, 
Nor for my ten white shillings luke. 

This list wi' ray ain hand I've wrote it, 
The day and date is under noted ; 
Then know all ye whom it concerns, 
Subscripsi huic 

Robert Burns. 
Mossgiel, Feb. 22nd ^ 1789. 



FRAGMENT, 



I sing : If these mortals, the critics should 

bustle, 
I care not, not I, let the critics go whistle. 

But now for a Patron, whose name and whose 

glory 
At once may illustrate and honour my story. 

Thou first of our orators, first of our wits; 
Yet whose parts and acquirements seem 

mere lucky hits ; 
With knowledge so vast, and with judgment 

so strong, 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went far 

wrong ; 
With passions so potent, and fancies so 

bright, 
No man with the half of era e'er went quite 

right ; 
A sorry, poor, misbegot son of the Muses, 
For using thy name offers fifty excuses. 

Good L — d, what is man ! for as simple he 

looks, 
Do but try to develop his hooks and his 

crooks ; 
With his depths and his shallows, his good 

and his evil. 
All in all he's a problem must puzzle the 

devil. 

On his one ruling passsion sir Pope hugely 

labours, 
That, like th' old Hebrew walking- switch, 

eats up its neighbours : 
Mankind are his show-box— a friend, would 

you know him ? 
Pull the string, ruling passion the picture 

will show him. 
What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system, 
One trifling particular, truth, should have 

miss'd him ; 
For, spite of his fine theoretic positions, 
Mankind is a science defies definitions. 

Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe. 
And think human nature they truly describe j 
Have you found this, or t' other, there's more 

in the wind. 
As by one drunken fellow his comrades 

you'll find. 
But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan. 
In the make of the wonderful creature, call'd 

Man, 
No two virtues, whatever relation they claim 
Nor even two different shades of the same, 
Though like as was ever twin brother to 

brother. 
Possessing the one shall imply you've tho 
other. 



INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HON. C. J. FOX. 

How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite ; 

How virtue and vice blend their black and 
their white ; 

How genius, th' illustrious father of fiction. 

Confounds rule and law, reconciles contra- 
diction — 



TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 

EUisland, 21 st October, 1789. 

Wow, hut your letter made roe vauntie ! 
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie ! 



78 



BURNS S POEMS. 



I kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie 
Wad bring ye to : 

Lord send ye aye an weal's I want ye, 
And then ye'll do. 

The ill-thief blaw the Heron south ! 
And never drink be near his drouth ! 
He tauld mysel by word o' mouth, 

He'd tak my letter ; 
I Hppen'd to the chiel in trouth, 

And bade nae better. 

But aiblins honest Master Heron 
Had at the time some dinty fair one, 
To ware his theologic care on, 

And holy study ; 
And tir'd o' sauls to waste his lear on, 

E'en tried the body.* 

But what d'ye think, my trusty fier, 
I'm turn'd a ganger — Peace be here ! 
Parnassian queens, I fear, I fear 

Ye'll now disdain me, 
And then my fifty pounds a year 

Will little gain me. 

Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, 
Wha by Castalia's wimplin' streamies, 
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbics. 

Ye ken, ye ken. 
That Strang necessity supreme is 

'Mang sons o' men. 

* Mr. Heron, author of the history of Scot- 
land, and of various other works. 



I hae a wife and twa wee laddies, 

They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies 

Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud ia 

I needna' vaunt. 
But I'll sned besoms — thraw saugh woodies 

Before they want. 

Lord help me thro' this world o' care ! 
I'm weary sick o't late and air! 
Not but I hae a richer share 

Than mony ithers j 
But why should ae man better fare, 

And a' men brithers ? 

Come, Firm Resolve, tak' thou the van. 
Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man! 
And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan 

A lady fair ; 
Wha does the utmost that he can, 

Will whyles do mair. 

But to conclude my silly rhyme, 
(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time). 
To mak' a happy fire-side clime 

To weans and wife,. 
That's the true pathos and sublime 

Of human life. 

My compliments to sister Beckie ; 
And eke the same to honest Lucky, 
I wat she is a dainty chuckle 

As e'er tread clay! 
And gratefully, my guid auld cockie, 

I'm yours for aye. 

Robert Burns. 





ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACH, 

Written hy the Author at a time when he was 
grievously tormented by that Disorder. 

My curse upon thy venom'd stang, 
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang ; 
And thro' my lugs gies raonie a twang, 

Wi' gnawing vengeance ; 
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, 

Like racking engines ! 

When fevers burn, or ague freezes, 
Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes ; 
Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us, 

Wi' pitying moan ', 
But thee — thou hell o' a' diseases. 

Aye mocks our groan ! 

Adown my beard the slavers trickle ! 
I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle, 
As round the fire the giglets keckle 

To see me loup ; 
While raving mad, I wish a heckle 

Were in their doup. 

O' a' the num'rous human dools, 

111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, 

Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools, 

Sad sight to see ! 
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools. 

Thou bear'st the gree. 

Where'er that place be priests ca' hell, 
Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell. 
And ranked plagues their numbers tell. 

In dreadfu' raw. 
Thou, Toothach, surely bear'st the bell 

Amang them a' ! 

O thou grim mischief-making chiel, 
That gars the notes of discord squeel. 
Till dafl mankind aft dance a reel 

In gore a shoe-thick ; — 
Gi© a' the faes o' Scotland's weal 

A towmond's Toothach ! 



THE WHISTLE. 

A BALLAD. 



As the authentic prose history of the Whistle is 
curious, I shall here give it. — In the train of 
Anne of Denmark, when she came to Scotland 
with our James the Sixth, there came over 
also a Danish gentleman of gigantic stature 
and great prowess, and a matchless champion 
of Bacchus. He had a little ebony Whistle, 
which at the commencement of the orgies he 
laid on the table, and whoever was last able 
to blow it, every body else being disabled by 
the potency of the bottle, was to carry off 
the Whistle as a trophy of victory. The Dane 
produced credentials of his victories, without 
a single defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, 
Stockholm, Moscow, Warsaw, and several of 
the petty courts in Germany ; and challenged 
the Scots Bacchanalians, to the alternative of 
trying his prowess, or else of acknowledging 
their inferiority. — After many overthrows on 
the part of the Scots, the Dane was encounter- 
ed by Sir Robert Lawrie, of Maxwelton, an- 
cestor of the present worthy baronet of that 
name ; who, after three days and three nights' 
hard contest, left the Scandinavian under the 
table. 
And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill. 

Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before men- 
tioned, afterwards lost the Whistle to Walter 
Riddel of Glenriddel, who had married a sis- 
ter of Sir Walter's.— On Fridaj', the I6th of 
October, 1790, at Friars-Carse, the Whistle 
was once more contended for, as related in the 
ballad, by the present Sir Robert Lawrie of 
Maxwelton; Robert Riddel, Esq, of Glenrid- 
del, lineal descendant and representative of 
Walter Riddel, who won the Whistle, and in 
whose family it had continued ; and Alexan- 
der Ferguson, Esq. of Craigdarroch, likewise 
descended of the great Sir Robert ; which last 
gentleman carried off the hard-won honours 
of the field. 



80 



BUR?7B 8 POEMS. 



I sinff of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth, 
I Bing of a Whistle, the pride of the North, 
Was brought to the court of our good Scot- 
tish kings 
And long with this Whistle all Scotland did 
ring. 

Old Loda,* still rueing the arm of Fingal, 
The god of the bottle sends down from his 

hall— 
" This Whistle's your challenge, in Scotland 

get o'er, 
And drmlc them to hell, Sir^ or ne'er see me 

more !" 

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell. 
What champions ventur'd, what champions 

fell ; 
The son of great Loda was conqueror still, 
And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill. 

Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the 

Scaur, 
Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war. 
He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea. 
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. 

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has 

gain'd, 
Which now in his house has for ages re- 

main'd ; 
Till three noble chieftains, and all of his 

blood. 
The jovial contest again have renew'd. 

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear 

of flaw ; 
Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth and 

law ; 
And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins, 
And gallant Sir Robert, deep read in old 

wines. 

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth 

as oil. 
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil; 
Or else he vvo\\ld muster the heads of the clan. 
And once more, in claret, try which was the 

man. 

* By the gods of the ancients !' Glenriddel 

replies. 
Before I surrender so glorious a prize, 
I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie 

More,+ 
And bumper his horn with him twenty times 

o'er.' 

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pre- 
tend. 

But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe — or 
his friend, 

Said, toss down the Whistle, the prize of the 
field, 

And knee-deep in claret, he'd die ere he'd 
yield. 

* See Ossian's Caric-thura. 
f See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides. 



To the board of Glenriddel our heroes. repair, 
So noted for drowning of sorrow and care ; 
But for wine and for welcome not more 

known to fame. 
Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet 

lovely dame. 

A bard was selected to witness the fray, 
And tell future ages the feats of the day ; 
A bard who detested all sadness and spleen, 
And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had 
been. 

The dinner being over, the claret they ply, 
And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy, 
In the bands of old friendship and kindred so 

set, 
And the bands grew the tighter the more 

they were wet. 

Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er ; 
Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a 

core. 
And vow'd that to leave them he was quite 

forlorn. 
Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn. 

Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the 
night. 
When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, 
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red, 
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestors 
did. 

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and 
sage, 
No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage ; 
A high-ruling Elder to wallow in wine ! 
He left the foul business to folks less divine. 

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end: 
But who can with fate and quart bumpers 

Contend ? 
Though fate said — a hero should perish in 

light ; 
So uprose bright PhcEbus — and down fell the 

knight. 

Next uprose our bard, like a prophet in 

drink ; — 
" Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation 

shall sink ! 
But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, 
Come— one bottle more — and have at the 

sublime ! 

" Thy line, that have struggled for freedom 

with Bruf.e, 
Shall heroes and patriots ever produce : 
So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay ; 
The field thou hast won, by yon bright God 

of day 1" 



ELEGY ON THE LATE MISS BURNET, 

OF MONBODDO. 

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize 

As Burnet, lovely from her native skies ; , 



BURxNS S POEMS. 



81 



Nor ejivious death so triumph'd in a blow, 
As that which laid the accomplish'd Burnet 
low. 

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I for- 
get ? 

In richest ore the brightest jewel set ! 

In thee, high Heaven above was truest 
shown, 

As by his noblest work the Godhead best is 
known. 

In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye 
groves ; 
Thou chrystal streamlet with thy flowery 
shore, 
Ye woodland choir that chaunt your idle 
loves, 
Ye cease to charm — Eliza is no more ! 

Ye heathy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens ; 

Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes 
stor'd ; 
Ye rugged cliffs, o'erhanging dreary glens, 

To you I fly, ye with ray soul accord. 

Princes whose cumbrous pride was all their 
worth, 
Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail ? 
And thou, sweet excellence ! forsake our 
earth, 
And not a Muse in honest grief bewail ? 

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's 
pride. 
And virtue's light, that beams beyond the 
spheres ; 
But like the sun eclips'd at morning tide, 
Thou lefl'st us darkling in a world of tears. 

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, 
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and 
care ! 
So deckt the woodbine sweet yon aged tree, 
So from it ravish'd, leaves it bleak and 
bare. 



PROLOGUE, 

spoken at the theatre, ellisland, on 
new-year's-dav evening. 

No song nor dance I bring from yon great 

city 
That queens it o'er our taste — the more's the 

pity; 
Tho', by the bye, abroad why will you roam ? 
Good sense and taste are natives here at 

home : 
But not for panegyric I appear, 
I come to wish you all a good new-year ! 
Old Father Time deputes me here before 

ye, 

Not for to preach, but tell his simple story : 
The sage grave ancient cough'd, and bade 

me say, 
• You're one year older this important day." 



If wiser too — he hinted some suggestion, 
But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the 

question ; 
And with a would-be roguish leer and wink. 
He bade me on you press this one word — 
'' think " 
Ye sprightly youths, quite flush with hope 
and spirit. 
Who think to storm the world by dint of 

merit, 
To you the dotard has a deal to say. 
In his sly, dry, sententions, proverb way ! 
He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless 

rattle, 
That the first blow is ever half the battle ,; 
That tho' some by the skirt may try to 

snatch him ; 
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him ; 
That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing, 
You may do miracles by persevering. 
Last, tho' not least in love, ye youthful 
fair, 
Angelic forms, high heaven's peculiar care 1 
To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled 

brow. 
And humbly begs you'll mind the important 

— now! 
To crown your happiness he asks your leave, 
And offers bliss to give and to receive. 
For our sincere, tho' haply weak endea- 
vours. 
With grateful pride we own your many fa- 
vors ; 
And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, 
Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it. 

— Q®©— 

THE FOLLOWING POEM 
WAS IVRITTEJ^" 

TO A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD SENT HIM A 

NEWSPAPER, AND OFFERED TO CONTINUE 

IT FBEE OF EXPENSE. 

Kind Sir, I've read your paper through, 
And faith, to me, 'twas really new ? 
Howguess'd ye, Sir, whatmaist I wanted ? 
This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted, 
To ken what French mischief was bre win' ; 
Or what the drumlie Dutch are doin' ; 
That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph , 
If Venus yet had got his nose off"; 
Or how the collieshangie works 
Atween the Russians and the Turks ; 
Or if the Swede, before he halt. 
Would play anither Charles the twalt : 
If Denmarli, oriy body spak o't ; 
Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't ; 
How cut-throat Prussian blades were 

hingin', 
How libbet Italy was tiingin' ; 
If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, 
Were sayin' or takin' aught amiss : 
Or how our merry lads at hame, 
In Britain's court kept up the gam« : 



82 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



How royal Georgo, the Lord leuk o'er 

him! 
Was managing St. Stephen's quorum ; 
If sleekit Chatham Will was livin', 
Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ; 
How daddie Burke the plea was cookin', 
If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin' ; 
How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd, 
Or if bare a — s yet were tax'd ; 
The news o' princes, dukes, and earls, 
Pimps, sharpers, bawdsj and opera-girls ; 
If that daft buckie, Geordie W * * * * s, 
Was threshin' still at hizzies' tails, 
Or if he was grown oughtlins douser, 
And no a perfect kintra cooser. 
A' this and mair I never heard of; 
And but for you I might despair'd of. 
So gratefu', back your news I send you, 
And pray a' guid things may attend you 
Ellisland, Monday Morning, 1790. 



LINES 

ON AN INTERVIEW WITH LORD DAER. 

This wot ye all whom it concerns, 
I Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, 

October twenty-third, 
A ne'er to be forgotten day, 
Sae far I spreckled up the brae, 

I dinner'd wi' a Lord. 

I've been at druken writers' feasts, 
Nay, been bitch-fou 'mang godly priests, 

Wi' rev'rence ho it spoken ; 
I've even join'd the honour'd jorum, 
When mighty Squireships of the quorum 

Their hydra drouth did sloken. 

But wi' a Lord — stand out my shin, 
A Lord — a Peer — an Earl's son. 

Up higher yet my bonnet ; 
And sic a Lord — lang Scotch ells twa, 
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a', 

As I look o'er my sonnet. 

But oh for Hogarth's magic pow'r ! 
To shew Sir Bardy's willyart glowr, 

And how he star'd and stammer'd, 
When goavan, as if led wi' branks, 
An' stumpin' on his ploughman shanks, 

He in the parlour hammer'd. 

I sidling shelter'd in a nook, 

An' at his his Lordship steal't a look, 

Like some portentous omen ; 
Except good sense and social glee, 
An' (what surprised me) modesty, 

I marked nought uncommon. 

I watch'd the symptoms o' the Great, 
The gentleipride, the lordly state, > 

The arrogant assuming ; 
The feint a pride, nac pride had he, 
Nor saucG, nor state that I could see, 

Mair tiiau an honest ploughman. 



Then from his Lordship I shall learn. 
Henceforth to meet with unconcern 

One rank as weel's another ; 
Nae honest worthy man need care 
To meet with noble youthful Daer, 

For he but meets a brother. 



EPISTLE TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. 

When Nature her great master-piece de- 

sign'd, 
And fram'd her last, best work, the human 

mind. 
Her eye intent on all the mazy plan, 
She form'd of various parts the various man. 
Then first she calls the useful many forth ; 
Plain plodding industry, and sober worth : 
Then peasants, farmers, native sons of earth, 
And merchandise' whole genus take their 

birth : 
Each prudent cit a warm existence finds, 
And all mechanics' many apron'd kinds. 
Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, 
The lead and buoy are needful to the net : 
The caput mortuuvi of gross desires 
Makes a material for mere knights and 

squires , 
The martial phosphorus is taught to flow. 
She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough. 
Then marks th' unyielding mass with grave 

designs. 
Law, physics, politics, and deep divines : 
Last she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles, 
The flashing elements of female souls. 

The order'd system fair before her stood, 
Nature, well-pleas'd pronounc'd it very good ; 
But ere she gave creating labour o'er. 
Half-jest, she try'd one curious labour more.- 
Some spumy, fiery ignis fatmis matter ; 
Such as the slightest breath of air might 

scatter ; 
With arch alacrity and conscious glee 
(Nature may have her whim as well as we. 
Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show 

it) 
She forms the thing and christens it — a poet. 

Creature tho' oft the prey of care and sor- 
row. 
When blest to-day unmindful of to-morrow. 
A being form'd t' amuse his graver friends, 
Admir'd and prais'd — and there the homage 

ends : 
A mortal quite unfit for Fortune's strife. 
Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life ; 
Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, 
Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live : 
Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each ^ 

groan. 
Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. 

But honest Nature is not quite a Turk, 
She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poot 

work. 
Pitying the propless climber of mankind, 
She cast about a standard tree to find ; 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



83 



And, to support his helpless woodbine state, 
Attach'd him to the generous truly great, 
A title, and the only one I claim, 
To lay strong hold for help on bounteous 
Graham. 
Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train. 
Weak, timid landmen on life's stormy main I 
Their hearts no selfish stern absorben stuff, 
That never gives — tho' humbly takes 

enough ; 
The little fate allows, they share as soon, 
Unlike sage, proverb'd, wisdom's hard wrung 

boon. 
The world were blest did bUss on them de- 
pend. 
Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a 

friend !" 
Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son, 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun. 
Who feel by reason, and who give by rule, 
(Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool!) 
Who make poor will do wait upon I should — 
We own they're prudent, but who feels 

they're good ? 
Te wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! 
God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy i 
But come ye, who the godlike pleasure know. 
Heaven's attribute distinguish'd — to bestow : 
Whose arms of love would grasp the human 

race : 
Come thou who giv'st with all a courtier's 

grace ; 
Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes ! 
Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. 
Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half 

afraid. 
Backward, abash'd to ask thy friendly aid ? 
I know my need, I know thy giving hand, 
I crave thy friendship at thy kind command ; 
But there are such who court the tuneful 

nine — 
Heavens ! should the branded character be 

mine ! 
Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely 

flows. 
Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. 
Mark, how their lofty independent spirit 
Soars on the spurning wing of injur'd merit ! 
Seek not the proofs in private life to find ; 
Pity the best of words should be but wind ! 
So, to heaven's gates the larks shrill song 

ascends, 
But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. 
In all the clam'rous cry of starving want, 
They dun benevolence with shameless front; 
Oblige them, patronize their tinsel lays. 
They persecute you all your future days ! 
Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain, 
My horny fist assume the plough again ', 
The piebald jacket let me patch once more ; 
On eighteen-pence a week I've liv'd before. 
Though, thanks to Heaven, I dare even that 

last shift, 
I trust meantime my boon is in thy gift ; 
That plac'd by thee upon the wish'd-for 
height, 



Where, man and nature fairer in her sight, 
My muse may imp her wing for some subli- 
mer flight*. 



THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN. 

AN OCCASIONAL ADDRESS SPOKEN BY MISS 
FONTENELLE ON HER BENEFIT-NIGHT. 

While Europe's eye is fixed on mighty things, 
The fate of empires and the fall of king s ; 
While quacks of state must each produce his 

plan, 
And even his children lisp the Rights of Man ; 
Amid this mighty fuss, just let me mention, 
The Rights of Woman merit some attention, 
First, in the sexes' intermix'd connexion, 
One sacred Right of Woman is protection — 
The tender flower that lifts its head, elate, 
Helpless, must fall before the blast of fate, 
Sunk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form, 
Unless your shelter ward th' impending 

storm. — 
Our second Right — but needless here is 

caution. 
To keep that right inviolate 's the fashion, 
Each man of sense has it so full before him. 
He'd die before he'd wrong it — 'tis deco- 

rum. — 
There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, 
A time, when rough rude man had naughty 

ways; 
Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a 

riot. 
Nay, even thus invade a lady's quiet — 
Now, thank our stars ! these Gothic times 

are fled ; 
Now, well-bred men — and you are all well- 
bred — 
Most justly think (and we are much the 

gainers) 
Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners. 
For Right the third, our last, our best, our 

dearest. 
That right to fluttering female hearts the 

nearest. 
Which even the Rights of Kings in low 

prostration 
Most huni^y own — 'tis dear,deara(Zmira<io7i.' 
In that blest sphere alone we live and move ; 
There taste that life of life—immortal love. — 
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, 

airs, 
'Gainst such an host what flimty savage 

dares — 
When awful Beauty joins with all her 

charms. 
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms ? 



* This is our Poet's first epistle to Graham 
of Fiutry. It is not equal to the second ; but 
it contains too much of the characteristic vi- 
gor of its .author to be suppressed. A little 
more knowledge of natural history, or of chy- 
njistry, was wanted, to enable him to execute 
the original conception correctly. 



84 



BURNS S POEMS. 



But truce vritii kings, and truce with con- 
stitutions, 
With bloody armaments and revolutions ; 
Let Majesty your first attention summon, 
.?/i ga ira ! the Majesty of Woman ! 



ADDRESS, 

SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE, ON HER BENE- 
FIT-NIGHT, DECEMBER 4, 1795, AT THE 
THEATRE, DUMFRIES. 

Still anxious to secure your partial favour, 

And not less anxious, sure, this night, than 
ever, 

A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 

*T would vamp my bill, said I, if nothing bet- 
ter ; 

So sought a Poet, roosted near the skies ; 

Told him I came to feast my curious eyes ; 

Said , nothing like his works was ever printed; 

And last my Prologue-business slily hinted. 

" Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of 
rhymes, 

' ' I know your bent — these are no laughing 
times : 

Can you — but Miss, I own I have my fears — 

Dissolve in pause — and sentimental tears ? 

With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sen- 
tence, 

Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Re- 
pentance ? 

Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand, 

Waving on high the desolating brand. 

Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty 
land ?" 
I could no more — askance the creaturo 
eyeing. 

D'ye think, said I, this face was made for 
crying ? 

rU laugh, that's poz — nay more, th© world 
shall know it ; 

And 80, your servant ! gloomy Master Poet ! 
Firm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my fixed be- 
lief. 

That Misery's another word for Grief: 

I also think — so may I be a bride ! 

That se much laughter, so much life enjoy'd, 
Thcu man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh. 

Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye ; 

Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive — 

To make three guineas do the work of five : 

Laugh in Misfortune's face — the beldam 
witch ! 

Say, you'll be merry, tho' you can't be rich. 
Thou other roan of care, the wretch in 
love, 

Who long with jiltish arts arid airs hast 
strove ; 

Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, 

Measur'st in desperate thought — a rope — 
thy neck ; 

Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the 
deep, 

Peerest to meditate the healing leap : 



Would'st thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping 

elf.? 
Laugh at her follies — laugh e'en at thyself: 
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific. 
And love a kinder — that's your grand spe- 
cific. 
To sum up all, be merry, I advise ; 
And as we're merry, may we still be wise. 



VERSES TO A YOUNG LADY, 

WITH A PRESENT OF SONGS. 

Here, where the Scottish Muse immortal 
lives, 
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers 
join'd 
Accept the gift ; tho' humble he who gives, 
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. 

So may no ruffian-feeling in thy breast. 
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among ; 

But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest, 
Or love extatic wake his seraph song : 

Or pity's notes, in luxury of tears. 
As modest want the tale of woe reveals ; 

While conscious virtue all the strain endears, 
And heaven-born piety her sanction seals. 



POEM ON PASTORAL POETRY. 

Hail Poesie ! thou nymph reserv'd ! 

In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd 

Frae common sense, or sunk enerv'd, 

'Mang heaps o' clavers ; 
And och ! owre aft thy joes hae starv'd, 

'Mid a' thy favours • 

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang. 
While loud the trumps heroic clang, 
And sock or buskin skelp alang 

To death or marriage ; 
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang 

But wi' miscarriage 1 

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives ; 
Eschylus' pen Will Shakespeare drives ; 
Wee Pope, the knurlin, till him rives 

Horatian fame ; 
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives 

Even Sappho's fiame. 

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches } 
They're no herd ballats, Maro's catches : 
Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches 

O' heathen tatters : 
I pass by hunders, nameless wretches. 

That ape their betters. 

In this braw age o' wit and lear, 
Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair 
Blaw sweetly in its native air 

And rural grace ; 
And wi' the fair-fam'd Grecian, share 

A rival place .? 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



85 



Ves ! tliere is ane ; a Scottish callan ; 
There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan ! 
Thou needna jouk behint the hallan, 

A chiel sae clever ; 
The teeth o' Time may gnaw Tantallan, 

But thou's for ever. 

Thou paints auld nature to the nines, 

In thy sweet Caledonian lines ; 

Nae govvden streams thro' myriles twines, 

Where Philomel, 
While nightly breezes sweep the vines, 

Her griefs will tell ! 

In gowany glens thy burnie strays. 
Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes ; 
Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, 

Wi' hawthorns ^ray, 
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays 

At close o' day. 

Thy rural loves are nature's sel' ; 
Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell ; 
Nae snap conceits, bui that sweet spell 

O' witchin' love, 
That charm that can the strongest quell, 

The sternest move. 



WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A COPY OF HIS 

POEMS PRESENTED TO A LADY, 

WHOM HE HAD OFTEN CELCBRATBD UNDER 
THE NAME OF CHLORIS. 

'Tis friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend, 

Nor thou the gift refuse, 
Nor with unwilling ear attend 

The moralizing muse. 

Since thou, in all thy youth and charms, 

Must bid the world adieu, 
(A world 'gainst peace lo constant arms) 

To join the friendly few. 

Since thy gay morn of life o'ercast. 
Chill came the tempest's lower ; 

(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 
Did nip a fairer flower. 

Since life's gay scenes must charm no more, 

Still much is left behind ; 
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store, 

The comforts of the mind ! 

Thine is the self-approving glow, 

On conscious honour's part ; 
And, dearest gift of heaven below, 

Thine friendship's truest heart. 

The joys refined of sense and taste, 

With every muse to rove : 
And doubly were the poet blest 

These joys could he improve. 

COPY OF A POE i ICAL ADDRESS TO 
MR. WILLIAM TYTLER, 

WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARD's PICTURE. 

Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, 
Of Stuart, a name once respected, 



A name, which to love was the mark of a 
true heart, 
But now 'tis despised and neglected. 

Tho' something like moisture conglobes in 
my eye, 
Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; 
A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a 
sigh, 
Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. 

My fathers that name have rever'd on a 
thr ine ; 
My fathers have fallen to right it ; 
Those fathers would spurn their degenerate 
son. 
That name should he scofiingly slight it. 

Still in praver for K — G — I most heartily 
join, 
The Q — , and the rest of the gentry. 
Be they wise, be ihey foolish, is nothing of 
mine ; 
Their title's avow'd by my country. 

But why of this epochamake such a fuss, 



But loyalty truce ! we're on dangerous 
ground. 

Who knows how the fashions may alter ? 
The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound, 

To morrow may bring us a halter ! 

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, 
A trifle scarce worthy your care ; 

But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard, 
Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. 

Now life's chilly evening dim shades in your 
eye, 
And ushers the long dreary night ; 
But you, like the star that athwart gilds the 
sky. 
Your course to the latest is bright. 



SKETCH.— NEW YEAR'S DAY. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

This day, time winds th' exhausted chain, 
To run the twelvemonth's length again : 
I see the old, bald-pated fellow, 
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, 
Adjust the unimpair'd machine, 
To wheel the equal, dull routine. 

The absent lover, minor heir. 
In vain assail him with their prayer. 
Deaf as my friend he sees them press, 
Nor makes the hour one moment less. 
Will you (the Major's with the hounds, 
The happy tenants share his rounds ; 
Coila 's fair Rachel's care to-day,* 

* This young lady was drawing a picture of 
Coila, from the vision. 



86 



BURNS S POEMS. 



And blooming Keith 's engaged with Gray) 

From housewife cares a minute borrow — 

— That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow — 

And join with me a morahzin^, 

This day's propitious to be wise in. 

First, what did yesternight deliver ? 

* Another year is gone forever." 

And what is this day's strong suggestion ? 

*' The passing moment's all we rest on !" 

Rest on — for what ? what do we here ? 

Or why regard the passing year ? 

Will Time, amus'd with proverb'd lore, 

Add to our date one minute more ? 

A few days may — a few years must — 

Repose us in the silent dust. 

Then is it wise to damp our bliss ? 

Yes — all such reasonings are amiss ! 

The voice of nature loudly cries, 

And many a message from the skies, 

That something in us never dies } 

That on this frail, uncertain state, 

Hang matters of eternal weight ; 

That future life in worlds unknown 

Must take its hue from this alone ; 

Whether as heavenly glory bright, 

Or dark as misery's woful night. — 

Since then, my honour'd, first of friends, 

On this poor being all depends ; 

Let us th' important now employ, 

And live as those that never die. 

Tho' you, with days and honours crown 'cf, 

Witness that filial circle round, 

(A sight — life's sorrows to repulse, 

A sight — pale envy to convulse,) 

Others may claim your chief regard ; 

Yourself, you wait your bright reward. 



EXTEMPORE, ON THE LATE 

MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE, 

jSuthor of the Philosophy ofJVatural History, 
and Member of the Antiquarian and Royal 
Societies of Edinburgh. 

To Crochallan came 
The old cock'd hat, the grey surtout the 

same j 
His bristling beard just rising in its might, 
'Twas four long nights and days to shaving 

night ; 
His uncomb'd grizzly locks, wild staring, 

thatch'd 
A head, for thought profound and clear, un- 

match'd ; 
Yet tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude, 
His heart was warm, benevolent, and good. 

POETICAL INSCRIPTION 
FOR AJ^ ALTAR TO IJVDEFEJVDEJSTCE, 

A.T KERRaUGHTRY, THE SEAT OF MR. HERON 

Written in Summer, 1795. 

Thou of an independent mind. 

With soul resolv'd, with soul resign'd ; 



Prepar'd Power's proudest frown to brave, 
Who wilt not be, nor have a slave j 
V'^irtue alone who dost revere. 
Thy own reproach alone dost fear. 
Approach this shrine, and worship here. 



SONNET, 

ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ. OF 
GLENRIDDEL ; APRIL, 1794. 

No more ye warblers of the wood, no more. 
Nor pour your descant, grating on my 

soul ', 
Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy ver- 
dant stole, 
More welcome were to me grim Winter's 
wildest roar. 

How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your 
dyes ? 
Ye blow upon the sod which wraps my 

friend : 
How can I to the tuneful song attend ? 
That strain flows round th' untimely tomb 
where Riddel lies. 

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe, 
And sooth the Virtues weeping on his bier : 
The Man of Worth, who has not left his 
peer, 

Is in his '* narrow house" for ever darkly low. 

Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others 

greet ; 
Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet. 

MONODY ON A LADY FAMED FOR 
HER CAPRICE. 

How cold is that bosom which folly once 
fir'd. 
How pale is that cheek where the rouge 
lately glisten' d ! 
How silent that tongue which the echoes 
oft tir'd. 
How dull is that ear which to flattery so 
listen'd ! 

If sorrow and anguish their exit await, 
From friendship and dearest affection re- 
mov'd ; 
How doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate. 
Thou diedst unwept, as thou livedst un- 
lov'd. 

Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on 
you; 
So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a | 
tear : | 

But come, all ye offspring of Folly so true, 
And flowers let us cull for Eliza's cold | 
bier. 

We'll search thro' the garden for each silly 
flower. 
We'll roam thro' the forest for each idle 
w«ed; 



BCRNS's POEMS. 



87 



But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, 
For none e'er approached her but rued the 
rash deed. 

We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure 
the lay ; 
Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre ; 
Tliere keen Indignation shall dart on her prey, 
Which spurning Contempt shall redeem 
from his ire. 



THE EPITAPH. 
Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect. 
What once was a butterfly, gay in life's 
beam : 
Want only of wisdom denied her respect, 
Want only of goodness denied her esteem. 



IMPROMPTU, 



ON MRS. 



-'S BIRTH DAY. 



NOVEMBER 4, 1793. 

Old Winter with his frosty beard. 
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd ; 
What have I done, of all the year, 
To bear this hated doom severe .'' 
My cheerless suns no pleasure know ; 
Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow ; 
My dismal months no joys are crowning. 
But spleeny English, hanging, drowning. 
Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil. 
To counterbalance all this evil ; 
Give me, and I've no more to say, 
Give me Maria's natal day ! 
That brilliant gift will so enrich me, 
Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match mej 
'I'is done ! says Jove ; so ends my story, 
And Winter once rejoic'd in glory. 



TO MISS JESSY L- 



DUMFRIES 



WITH BOOKS WHICH THE BARD PRESENTED HER, 

Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair, 
And with them take the Poet's prayer ; 
That fate may in her fairest page, 
With every kindliest, best presage 
Of future bliss, enrol thy name ; 
With native worth, and spotless fame. 
And wakeful caution still aware 
Of ill — but chief, man's felon snare : 
All blameless joys on earth we find. 
And all the treasures of the mind — 
These be thy guardian and reward ; 
So prays thy faitful friend, the Bard. 



SONNET, 

Written on the 25th of January, 1793, the 
birth-day of the Author, on hearing a 
Thrush sing in a morning icalk. 

Sing on, sweet Thrush, upon the leafless 
bough ; 
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain : 



See aged Winter, hnid his surly reign 
At thy blythe carol clears his furrow'd brow. 

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear 
Sits meek Content with light unanxious 

heart. 
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them 
part, 
Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. 

I thank thee. Author of this opening day ! 

Thou whose bright sun now gilds the ori- 
ent skies ! 

Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys, 
What wealth could never give nor take away ! 

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care ; 
Tiie mite high heav'n bestow'd, that mite 
with thee I'll share. 



EXTEMPORE, TO MR. S * * E, 

On refusing to dine with him, after having 
been promised the first of company, and 
the first of cookery ; 17th December, 1795. 

No more of your guests, be they titled or not, 
And cook'ry the first in the nation ; 

Who is proof to the personal converse and 
wit, 
Is proof to all other temptation. 



TO MR. S * * E, 

WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER. 

O, had the malt thy strength of mind, 

Or hops the flavour of thy wit, 
'Twere drink for first of human kind, 
A gift that e'en for S * * e were fit. 
Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries. 



POEM, 

ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, COLLECTOR 
OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 1796. 

Friend of the Poet, tried and leal, 
Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal ; 
Alake, alake, the meikle deil 

Wi' a' his witches 
Are at it, skelpin ! jig and reel. 

In my poor pouches. 

I modestly fu' fain wad hint it 

That one pound one, 1 sairly want it : 

If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it, 

It would be kind ; 
And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted, 

I'd bear't in mind. 

So may the auld year gang out moaning 
To see the new come laden, groaning, 
Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin' 

To thee and thine ; 
Domestic peace and comforts crowning 

The hale design. 



88 



BURNS S POEMS. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Ye've heard this while how I've been licket, 
And by fell death was nearly nicket : 
Grim loun ! he gat me by the fecket, 

And sair me sheuk ; 
But by guid luck I lap a wicket, 

And turn'd a neuk. 

But by that health, I've got a share o't 
And by that life, I'm promis'd raair o't, 
My heal and weal I'll take a care o't 

A tentier way : 
Then fareweel folly, hide and hair o't, 

For ance and aye. 



SENT TO A (SENTLEMAJf WHOM HE HAD 
OFFENDED. 

The friend whom wild from wisdom's way 
The fumes of wine infuriate send ; 

(Not moony madness more astray ;) 
Who but deplores that hapless friend ? 

Mine was th' insensate frenzied part, 
Ah why should I such scenes outlive ? 

Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ! 
'Tis thine to pity and forgive. 



POEM ON LIFE. 

ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER, 
DUMFRIES, 1796. 

My honour'd colonel, deep I feel 
Your interest in the Poet's weal ; 
Ah ! now sma' heart hae I to speel 

The steep Parnassus, 
Surrounded thus by bolus pill, 

And potion glasses. 

O what a canty warld were it, 

Would pain, and care, and sickness spare it; 

And fortune favour worth and merit, 

As they deserve : 
(And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret ; 

Syne wha wad starve ?) 

Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her, 
And in paste gems and fripp'ry deck her ; 
Oh ! flick 'ring, feeble, and unsicker 

I've found her still, 
Aye wav'ring like the willo« wicker, 

'Tween good and ill. 

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan ; 
Watches, like baudrans by a rattan. 
Our sinfu' saul to get a ciaut on 

Wi' felon ire ; 
Syne, whip ! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on, 

Hes afFlike fire. 

Ah Nick ! ah Nick ! it is na fair. 
First shewing us the tempting ware, 
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare. 

To put us daft ; 
Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare 

O' hell'f? damn'd waft. 



Poor man, the flie, aft bistzies by, 
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh, 
Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks with joy, 

And hellish pleasure ; 
Already in thy fancy's eye, 

Thy sicker treasure. 

Soon heels-o'er-gowdy ! in he gangs, 
And like a sheep-head on a tangs. 
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs 

And murd'ring wrestle, 
As, dangling in the wind, he hangs 

A gibbet's tassel. 

But lest you think I am uncivil. 

To plague you with this draunting drivel, 

Abjuring a' intentions evil, 

I quat my pen : 
The Lord preserve us frae the devil I 

Amen ! amen ! 



ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. OF FINTRY, 

ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR. 

I call no goddess to inspire my strains, 
A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns ; 
Friend of my life ! my ardent spirit bums, 
And all the tribute of my heart returns, 
For boons recorded, goodness ever new, 
The gift still dearer, as the giver you. 

Thou orb of day ! thou other paler light ; 
And all ye many sparkling stars of night ; 
If aught that giver from my mind efface ; 
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace ; 
Then roll to me, along your wand 'ring 

'spheres. 
Only to number out a villain's years I 



EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. 

An honest man here lies at rest. 
As e'er God with his image blest ; 
The friend of man, the friend of truth ; 
The friend of age, and guide of youth : 
Few hearts like his, with virtue warra'd, 
Few heads with knowledge 8«, inform'd : 
If there's anolher world, he lives in bliss ; 
If there is none, he made the best of this. 



A GRACE BEFORE DINNER. 

O Thou, who kindly dost provide 

For every creature's want ! 
We bless thee, God of Nature wide, 

For all thy goodness lent : 

And, if it please thee. Heavenly Guide, 

May never worse be sent ; 
But whether granted or denied. 

Lord, bless us with content ! 

Amen ! 



BURNS S POEMS. 



89 



A VERSE 

Composed and repeated by Burns, to the Mas- 
ter of the House, on taking leave at a place 
in the Highlands, where he had been 
hospitably entertained. 

When death's dark stream I ferry o'er, 
A time that surely shall come ; 

In Heaven itself I'll ask no more, 
Than just a Highland welcome. 



INSCRIPTION TO THE MEMORY 
OF FERGUSSON. 

HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET, 

Born, September 6th, 1751 — Died, 15th 
October, 1774. 

No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, 
" No storied urn nor animated bust," 

This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust. 



VERSES W^RITTEN AT SELKIRK. 

Auld chuckle Reekle^s* sair distrest, 
Down droops her ance weel burnish't crest, 
Nae joy her bonnie buskit nest 

Can yield ava, 
Her darling bird that she lo'es best, 

Willie's awa ! 

Willie was a witty wight, 
And had o' things an unco slight ; 
Auld Reekie aye he keepit tight, 

An' trig an' braw : 
But now they'll busk her like a fright, 
Willie's awa ! 

The stilFest o' them a' he bow'd ; 
The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd ; 
They durst nae mair than he allow'd. 

That was a law : 
We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd, 

Willie's awa 1 

Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and fools, 
Frae colleges and boarding-schools. 
May sprout like simmer puddock-stools 

In glen or shaw ; 
He wha could brush them down to mools, 

Willie's awa ! 

The brethren o' the Commerce-Chaumert 
May mourn their loss wi' dolefu' clamour ; 
He was a dictionar and grammar 

Amang them a' ; 

1 fear they'll now mak' mony a stammer, 

Willie's awa ! 

* Edinburgh. 

I The Chamber of Commerce of Edinburgh, 
of which Mr. C. was Secretary. 

12 



Nae mair we see his levee door 
Philosophers and Poets pour,* 
And toothy critics by the score. 

In bloody raw! 
The adjutant o' a' the core, 

Willie's awa '. 

Now worthy Gregory's latin face, 
Tytler's and Greenfield's modest grace ; 
M'Kenzie, Stuart, such a brace 

As Rome ne'er saw ; 
They a' maun meet some ither place, 

Willie's awa ! 

Poor Burns e'en Scotch drink canna quicken, 
He cheeps like some bewilder'd chicken 
Scar'd frae its minnie and the cleckin' 

By hoodie-craw ; 
Grief's gien his heart an unco kickin', 

Willie's awa ! 

Now ev'ry sour-mou'd girnin', blellum. 
And Calvin's fock, are fit to fell him ; 
And self-conceited critic skellum 

His quill may draw ; 
He wha could brawlie ward their bellum, 

Willie's awa ! 

Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped, 
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, 
And Ettrick banks now roaring red, 

While tempests blaw ; 
But every joy and pleasure's fled, 

Willie's awa ! 

May I be slander's common speech ; 
A text for infamy to preach ; 
And lastly, streekit out to bleach 

In winter snaw ; 
When I forget thee, Willie Creech, 

Tho' far awa I 

May never wicked fortune touzle him ! 
May never wicked men bamboozle him ! 
Until a pow as auld's Methusalem 

He canty claw ! 
Then to the blessed New Jerusalem, 

Fleet wing awa ! 



THE 



GUIDWIFE OF WAUCHOPE-HOUSE. 

TO 

ROBERT BURNS. 

February 1787. 
My canty, witty, rhyming ploughman, 
I hafilins doubt, it is na' true man. 
That ye between the stilts were bred, 
Wi' ploughmen school'd, wi' ploughmen fed. 
I doubt it sair, ye've drawn your knowledge 
Either frae grammar-school, or college. 
Guid troth, your saul and body baith 
War' better fed, I'd gie my aith, 

* Many literary gentlemen were accustomed 
to meet at Mr. C— 's house at breakfast. 



90 



BURNS S POEMS. 



Than theirs, who sup sour-milk and parritch, 

An' bummil thro' the single caritch, 

Wha ever heard the ploughman speak, 

Could tell gif Homer was a Greek ? 

He'd flee as soon upon a cudgel, 

As get a single line of Virgil. 

An' then sae slee ye crack your jokes 

O' Willie P— t and CharHe F— x. 

Our great men a' sae weel descrive, 

An' how to gar the nation thrive, 

Ane maist wad swear ye dwalt amang theio, 

An' as ye saw them, sae ye sang them. 

But be ye ploughman, be ye peer, 

Ye are a funny blade, I swear ; 

An' though the cold I ill can bide. 

Yet twenty miles, an' mair, I'd ride. 

O'er moss, an' muir, an' never grumble, 

Tho' my old yad shou'd gie a stumble, 

To crack a winter-night wi' thee. 

And hear thy sangs and sonnets slee. 

A guid saut herring, an' a cake, 

Wi' sic a chiel, a feast wad make, 

I'd rather scour your reaming yill, 

Or eat o' cheese and bread my fill. 

Than wi' dull lairds on turtle dine. 

An' ferlie at their wit and wine. 

O, gif I kenn'd but wliare ye baide, 

I'd send to you a marled plaid ; 

'Twad haud your shoulders warm and braw, 

An' douse at kirk, or market §haw. 

For souih, as weel as north, my lad, 

A' honest Scotchmen lo'e the maud, 

Right wae that we're sae far frae itlier : 

Yet proud I am to ca' ye brither. 



Your most obed't. 



E. S. 



ANSWER TO VERSES 

ADDRESSED TO THE POET BY THE GUIDWIFE 
OF WAUCHOFE-HOUSE. 

GuiDWlFE, 

I mind it weel, in early date, 
When I was beardless, young, and blate, 

An' first could thresh the barn, 
Or haud a yokin' at the pleugh. 
An' tho' forfoughten sair enough, 

Yet unco proud to learn : 
When first amang the yellow corn 

A man I reckon'd was, 
And wi' the lave ilk merry morn 
Could rank my rig and lass, 
Still shearing, and clearing 
The tither stocked raw, 
Wi' claivers, an' haivers, 
Wearing the day ava. 

Ev'n then a wish, (I mind its power,) 
A wish that to my latest hour, 

Shall strongly heave my breast ; 
That 1 for poor auld Scotland's sake, 
Some useful plan, or beuk could make, 

Or sing a sang at least. 



The rough bur-thistle, spreading wide 

Amang the bearded bear, 
I turn'd my weeding heuk aside, 
An' spar'd the symbol dear. 
No nation, no station, 

My envy e'er could raise ; 
A Scot still, but blot still, 
I knew no higher praise. 

But still the elements o' sang 

In formless jumble, right and wrang, 

Wild floated in my brain ; 
Till on that hairst I said before. 
My partner in the merry core, 

She rous'd (he forming strain : 
I see her yet, the sonsie quean. 

That lighted up her jingle. 
Her witching smile, her pauky een, 
That gart my heart-strings tingle ; 
I fired, inspired. 

At every kindling keek. 
But bashing, and dashing, 
I feared aye to speak. 

Heal to the set, ilk guid chiel says, 
Wi' merry dance in winter days. 

An' we to share in common : 
The gust o' joy, the balm of woe, 
The saul o' life, the heav'n below, 

Is rapture-giving woman. 
Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name. 

Be mindfu' o' your mither : 
She, honest woman, may think shame 
That ye're connected with her, 
Ye're wae men, ye're nae men, 
That slight tlie lovely dears ; 
To shame ye, disclaim ye. 
Ilk honest birkie swears. 

For you, no bred to barn and byre, 
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre, 

Thanks to you for your line : 
The marbled plaid ye kindly spare. 
By me should gratefully be ware ; 

'Twad please me to the nine. 
I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap. 

Douse hingin' o'er my curplc, 
Than ony ermine ever lap. 
Or proud imperial purple. 

Fareweel then, lang heal then, 

An' plenty be your fa' : 
May losses and crosses 
Ne'er at your hallan ca'. 
March, 1787. 



TO J. LAPRAIK. 

Sept. 13lh, 1785. 
Guid speed an' furder to you Johnny, 
Guid health, hale ban's, and weather bonniej 
Now when ye're nickan down fu' cannie 

The staff" o' bread. 
May ye ne'er want a stoup o' branny 

To clear your head. 

May Boreas never thresh your rigs, 
Nor kick your ricklcs aff" their legs, 



BURNS S POEMS. 



91 



Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs an' hags 

Like drivin' wrack ; 

But may the tapmost grain that wags 
Come to the sack. 

I'm bizzie too, an' skelpin' at it, 

But bitter, daudin showers haje wat it, 

Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it 

Wi' mucklo wark, 
An' took my jocteleg an watt it, 

Like ony clerk. 

It's now twa month that I'm your debtor, 
For your braw, nameless, dateless letter, 
Abusin' me for harsh ill-nature 

On holy men, 
While deil a hair yoursel ye're better, 

But mair profane. 

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, 
Let's sing about our noble sels ; 
We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills 

To help or roose us, 
But browster wives'* and whiskie stills, 

They are the muses. 

Your friendship. Sir, I winna quat it, 

An' if ye mak' objections at it, 

Then han in nieve some day we'll knot it, 

An* witness tak', 
An' when wi' Usquebae we've wat it 

It winna break. 

But if the beast and branks be spar'd 
Till kye be gaun without the herd, 
An' a' the vittel in the yard. 

An' theekit right, 
I mean your ingle-side to guard 

Ae winter night. 

Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vitae 

Shall make us baith sae blithe an' witty, 

Till ye forget ye're auld and gatty, 

An' be as canty 
As ye were nine years less than thretty, 

Sweet ane an' twenty ! 

But stooks are cowpet wi' the blast, 
An' now the sun keeks in the West, ' 
Then I maun rin amang the rest 

An' quit my chanter ; 
Sae I subscribe mysel' in haste, 

Your's, Rab the Ranter. 



TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH, 

ENCLOSING A COPY OF HOLY WILLIE's PRAYER, 
WHICH HE HAD REQUESTED. 

Sept. 17th, 1785. 
While at the stook the shearers cour 
To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r, 
Or in gulravage rinnin scour 

To pass the time, 
To you I dedicate the hour 

In idle rhyme, 

* Alehouse wives. 



My musie, tir'd wi' monie a sonnet 

On gown, an- ban', an douse black bonnet, 

Is grown right eerie now she's done it, 

Lest they should blame her, 
An' rouse their holy thunder on it, 

And anathem her 

I own 'twas rash, and rather hardy, 
That I, a simple countra bardie, 
Shou'd meddle wi' a pack so sturdy, 

Wha if they ken me, 
Can easy, wi' a single wordie. 

Loose h-11 upon me. 

But I gae mad at their grimaces. 
Their sighin', cantin', grace-proud faces, 
Their three-mile prayers, and hauf-mile 
graces, 

Their raxin' conscience, 
Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces 

Waur nor their nonsense. 

There's Gaun*, miska't waur than a beast, 
Wha has mair honour in his breast 
Than many scores as guid's the priest 

Wha sae abus'd him ; 
An' may a bard no crack his jest 

What way they've us'd him ? 

See himt, the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word an' deed, 
An' shall his fame an' honour bleed 

By worthless skellums, 
An' no a muse erect her head 

To cowe the blellums ? 

O Pope, had I thy satire's darts 
To gie the rascals their deserts, 
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts, 

An tell aloud 
Their jugglin' hocus-pocus arts 

To cheat the crowd. 

God knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd be, 
Nor am I even the thing [ could be, 
But, twenty times, I rather would be 

An atheist clean. 
Than under gospel colours hid be, 

Just for a screen. 

An honest man may like a glass, 
An honest man may like a lass, 
But mean revenge, an' malice fause, 

He'll still disdain, 
An then cry zeal for gospel laws. 

Like some we ken. 

They tak' religion in their mouth ; 
They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth, 
For what ? to gie their malice skouth 

On some puir wight. 
An' hunt him down, o'er right an' ruth, 

To ruin straight. 



* Gavil Hamilton, Esq, 

•■f The poet has introduced the two first lines 
of this stanza into the dedication of his works 
to Mr. Hamilton. 



92 



BURNS S POEMS. 



All hail, Religion ! maid divine I 
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine, 
Who in her rough imperfect hne 

Thus daurs to name thee ; 
To stigmatize false friends of thine 

Can ne'er defame thee. 

Tho' blotch't an' foul wi' mony a stain, 

An' far unworthy of thy train, 

Wi' trembling voice I tune my strain 

To join wi' those, 
Who boldly daur thy cause maintain 

In spite o' foes : 

In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs. 
In spite of undermining jobs, 
In spite o' dark banditti stabs 

At worth an' merit, 
By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes, 

But hellish spirit. 

Ayr ! ray dear, my native ground ! 
Within thy presbyterial bound, 
A candid lib'ral band is found 

Of public teachers, 
As men, as christians too, renown'd. 

As manly preachers. 

Sir, in that circle you are nam'd ; 
Sir, in that circle you are fam'd ; 
An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd, 

(Which giesyou honour,) 
Even, Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd, 

An' winning manner. 

Pardon this freedom I have ta'en, 
An' if impertinent I've been. 
Impute it not, good Sir, in ane 

Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye, 
But to his utmost would befriend 

Ought that belang'd ye. 



TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 

MAUCHLINE. 

(recommending a boy.) 

Mosgaville, May3, 1786. 
I hold it. Sir, my bounden duty. 
To warn you how that Master Tootio, 

Alias, Laird M'Gaun,* 
Was here to lure the lad away 
'Bout whom ye spak the tither day, 

An' wad hae don't atf han' : 
But lest he learn the callan tricks. 

As faith I nmckle doubt him, 
Like scrapin' out auld Crummie's nicks, 

An' tellin lies about them ; 

As lieve then I'd have then 
Your clerkship he should sair. 

If sae be. ye may be 
Nat fitted otherwhere. 



Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough, 

An' 'bout a house that's rude an' rough. 

The boy might learn to swear ; 
But then wi' you, he'll be sae taught, 
An' get sic fair example straught, 

I havena ony fear. 
Ye '11 catechize him every quirk, 

An' shore him weel wi' hell; 
An' gar him follow to the kirk 

— Aye when ye gang yoursel. 

If ye then, maun be then 

Fra hame this comin' Friday, 

Then please. Sir, to lea'e. Sir, 
The orders wi' your lady. 

My word of honour I hae gi'en. 

In Paisley John's, that night at e'en, 

To meet the Warld's worm : 
To try to get the twa to gree, 
An' name the airles an' the fee. 

In legal mode an' form : 
I ken he weel a snick can draw. 

When simple bodies let him j 
An' if a Devil be at a', 

In faith he's sure to get him. 
To phrase you an' praise you, 
Ye ken your Laureat scorns : 
The pray'r still, you share still, 
Of grateful Minstrel 

Burns. 



TO 

MR. M'ADAM, OF CRAIGEN-GILLAN, 

IN ANSWER TO AN OBLIGING LETTER HE SENT 

IN THE COMMENCEMENT OF MY POETIC 

CAREER. 

Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card, 

I trow it made me proud ; 
" See wha taks notice o' the bard !" 

I lap and cry'd fu' loud. 

Now deil-ma-care about their jaw, 

The senseless, gawky million ; 
I'll cock my nose aboon them a', 

I'm rous'd by Craigen-Gillan ! 

'Twas noble. Sir ; 'twas like yoursel, 
To grant your high protection : 

A great man's smile, ye ken fu' weel. 
Is aye a blest infection. 

Tho', by his banes wha in a tub 

Match'd Macedonian Sandy ! 
On my ain legs, thro' dirt and dub, 

I independent stand aye. — 

And when those legs to guid warm kail 

Wi' welcome canna bear me ; 
A lee-dyke side, a sybow-tail, 

And barley-scone shall cheer me. 

Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath 
O' mony flow'ry simmers ! 



* Master 7'ooiie then lived in Mauchline; a 
dealer in Cows. It was his common practice to 
cut the nicks or markings from the horns of cat- 
tle, to disguise their age. He was au artful trick- 



contriving character ; hence he is called a Snick- 
drawer. In the Poet's " Address to the I)eil,'' he 
styles that august personage, an auld snick- draw- 
ing dog [—Reliqucs, p. 397. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



93 



And bless your bonnie lasses baith, 
I'm tald they're loosome kiinmers ! 

And God bless young Dunaskin's laird, 
The blossom of our gentry ! 

And may he wear an auld man's beard, 
A credit to his country. 



TO 

CAPTAIN RIDDEL, GLENRIDDEL. 

(extempore lines on returning a news- 
paper.) 

Ellisland, Monday Evening. 
Your news and review, Sir, I've read through 
and through, Sir, 
With little admiring or blaming ; 
The papers are barren of home-news or fo- 
reign, 
No murders or rapes worth the naming. 

Our friends the reviewers, those chippers 
and hewers. 

Are judges of mortar and stone. Sir ; 
But of meet, or unmeet, in afabrick complete, 

I'll boldly pronounce they are none. Sir. 

My goose quill too rude is to tell all your 
goodness 
Bestovv'd on your servant, the Poet ; 
Would to God I had one like a beam of the 
sun. 
And then all the world, Sir, should know it ! 

TO TERRAUGHTY,* 

ON HIS BIRTH-DAY. 

Health to the Maxwells' vet'ran Chief! 
Health, aye unsour'd by care or grief: 
Inspir'd, I turn'd Fate's sibyl leaf 

This natal morn, 
I see thy life is stuff o' prief. 

Scarce quite half worn. — 

This day thou metes threescore eleven. 
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven 
(The second-sight, ye ken, is given 

To ilka Poet) 
On thee a tack o' seven times seven 

Will yet bestow it. 
If envious buckles view wi' sorrow 
Thy lengthen'd days on this blest morrow, 
May desolation's lang-teeth'd harrow, 

Nine miles an hour, 
Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah, 

In brunstane stoure 

S"iu°^ ^^^ friends, and they are mony, 
^aith honest men and lasses bonnie. 
May couthie fortune, kind and cannie, 
1X7- > . ^^ social glee, 

Wi mornings blithe and e'enings funny 
Bless them and thee ! 



* Mr. Maxwell, of Terraughty, near Dumfiies. 



Fareweel, auld birkie ! Lord be near ye, 
And then the Deil he daurna steer ye : 
Your friends aye love, your faes aye fear ye ; 

For me, shame fa' me. 
If niest my heart I dinna wear ye 

While Burns they ca' me. 

TO A LADY, 
with a present of a pair of drinking- 

glasses. 

Fair Empress of the Poet's soul, 

And Queen of Poetesses ; 
Clarinda, take this little boon. 

This humble pair of glasses. — 

And fill them high with generous juice, 

As generous as your mind ; 
And pledge me in the generous toast — 

" The whole of human kind!" 

" To those who love usT' — second fill; 

But not to those whom we love ; 
Lest we love those who love not us !- 

A third — " to thee and me, love .'" 

THE VOWELS. 

a tale. 

'Twas where the birch and sounding thong 

are ply'd, 
The noisy domicile of pedant pride ; 
Where ignorance her darkening vapour 

throws, 
And cruelty directs the thickening blows ; 
Upon a time, Sir Abece the great. 
In all his pedagogic powers elate, 
His awful chair of state resolves to mount, 
And call the trembling vowels to account. 
First enter 'd A, a grave, broad, solemn 
wight. 
But ah ! deform'd, dishonest to the sight ! 
His twisted head look'd backward on his way, 
And flagrant from the scourge, he grunted ai ! 
Reluctant E stalk'd in ; with piteous grace 
The justling tears ran down his honest face ! 
That name, that well-worn name, and all his 

own, 
Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne.' 
The pedant stifles keen the Roman sound, 
Not all his mongrel diphthongs can com- 
pound ; 
And next, the title following close behind. 
He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd. 
The cobweb'd gothic dome resounded, Y ! 
In sullen vengeance, I, disdained, reply ; 
The pedant swung his felon cudgel round, 
And knock'd the groaning vowel to the ground! 

In rueful apprehension enter'd O, 
The wailing minstrel of despairing wo ; 
Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert, 
Might there have learnt new mysteries of 

his art : 
So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U 
His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew, 



94 



BURNS S POEMS. 



As trembling U stood staring all aghast, 
The pedant in his left hand clntch'd him fast, 
In helpless infant's tears he dipp'd his right, 
Baptiz'd him cu, and kick'd him from his 
sight. 

— ^i©©— 

SKETCH* 

A little, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight, 
And still his precious self his dear delight ; 
Who loves his own smart shadow in the 

streets 
Better than e'er the fairest she he meets : 
A man of fashion too, he made his tour, 
Learn'd xivc la bagatelle, et vivc V amour ; 
So travell'd monkeys their grimace improve, 
Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies' love. 
Much specious lore, but little understood ; 
Veneering oft outshines the solid wood : 
His sohd sense — by inches you must tell. 
But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell ; 
His middling vanity, a busy fiend. 
Still making work his selfish craft must mend. 

SCOTS PROLOGUE, 
FOR MR. Sutherland's benefit-night, 

DUMFRIES. 

What needs this din about the town o' Lon'- 

on. 
How this new play an' that new sang is 

comin' ? 
Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted ? 
Does nonsense mend like whisky, when im- 
ported ? 
Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame, 
Will try to gie us sangs and plays at hame .'' 
For comedy abroad he needna toil, 
A fool and knave are plants of every soil ; 
Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece 
To gather matter for a serious piece ; 
There's themes enough in Caledonian story, 
Would shew the tragic muse in a' her glory . — 

Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell 
How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless 

fell? 
Where are the muses fled that could produce 
A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce ; 
How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the 

sword 
'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord; 



* This sketch seems to be one of a Series, in- 
tended for a projected work, under the title of 
" The PoeVs Progress.''^ This character was 
sent as a specimen, accompanied by a letter to 
Professor Dugald Stewart, in which it is thus 
noticed : "The fragment beginning, A little, up- 
right, pert, tart, (fee. I have not shown to any 
man living, till I now send it to you. It forms 
the postula, the axioms, the definition of a cha- 
racter, which, if it appear at all, shall be placed 
in a variety of lights. This particular part I 
send you merely as a sample of my hand at por- 
trait-painting." 



And after mony a bloody, deathless doing, 
Wrench'd his dear country from the jaws of 
ruin ? 

O for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene, 
To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen ; 
Vain all th' om.nipotence of female charms 
'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad rebellion's 

arms. 
She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, 
To glut the vengeance of a rival woman : 
A woman, tho' the phrase may seem uncivil, 
As able and as cruel as the Devil ! 
One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page, 
But Douglases were heroes every age : 
And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life, 
A Douglas follow 'd to the martial strife, 
Perhaps, if bowls row right, and Right suc- 
ceeds, 
Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads ! 

As ye hae generous done, if a' the land 
Would tak' the muses' servants by the hand ; 
Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them. 
And where ye justly can commend, com- 
mend them ; 
And aiblins when they winna stand the test; 
Wink hard and say, the folks hae done their 

best! 
Would a' the land do this, then I'll be cau- 
tion 
Ye'll soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation, 
Will gar fame blaw until her trumpit crack, 
And warsle time an' lay him on his back ! 

For us and for our stage should ony spier, 
" Whase aught thae chiels maks a' this bus- 
tle here ?" 
My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow. 
We hae the honour to belong to you ! 
We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye 

like. 
But like good mithers, shore before ye 

strike — 
And gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us, 
For a' the patronage and meikle kindness 
We've got frae a' professions, sets and ranks : 
God help us ! we're but poor — ye'se get but 
thanks. 

EXTEMPORANEOUS EFFUSION. 

ON BEING APPOINTED TO THE EXCISE. 

Searching old wives' barrels, 

Och, ho ! the day ! 
That clarty barm should stain my laurels; 

But — what'll ye say ! 
These movin things, ca'd wives and weans, 
Wad move the very hearts o' stanes ! 



ON SEEING THE 

BEAUTIFUL SEAT OF LORD G. 

What dost thou in that mansion fair ? 

Flit G , and find 

Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave, 

The picture of thy mind ! 



BURNS S POEMS. 



95 



ON THE SAME. 

No Stewart art thou, G , 

The Stewarts all were brave ; 
Besides, the Stewarts were but fools, 

Not one of them a knave. 

ON THE SAME. 

iJrigiit ran thy line, O G , 

Thro' many a far-fam'd sire ! 
So ran the far-fam'd Roman way, 

So ended in a mire ! 

TO THE SAME, ON THE AUTHOR BEING THREAT- 
ENED WITH HIS RESENTMENT. 

Spare me thy vengeance, G , 

Jn quiet let me live : 
I ask no kindness at thy hand, 

For tliou hast none to ffive. 



VERSES TO J. RANKEN. 

(The Person to whom his Poem on shooting 
the Partridge is addressed, while Rnnken 
occupied the Farm of Jidam-Hill, in Ayr- 
shire.) 

Ae day, as Death, that grusome carl. 
Was driving to the tither warl' 
A mixtie-maxtie motley squad. 
And mony a guilt-bespotted lad ; 
Black gowns of each denomination, 
And thieves of every rank and station. 
From him that wears the star and garter. 
To him that wintles in a halter ; 
Asham'd himsel' to see the wretches, 
He mutters, glowrin' at the bitches, 
*' By G-d I'll not be seen behint them, 
Nor 'mang the sp'ritual core present them, 
Without, at least, ae honest man, 

To grace this d d infernal clan." 

By Adamhill a glance he threw, 
" L— d G-d! " quoth he, " I have it now, 
There's just the man I want, i' faith," 
And quickly stoppit Ranken's breath. 



ON HEARING THAT THERE WAS FALSEHOOD 
IN THE 

REV. DR. B S VERY LOOKS. 

That there is falsehood in liis looks 

I must and will deny : 
They say their master is a knave — 

And sure they do not lie. 



ON A 

SCHOOLMASTER IN CLEISH 
PARISH, FIFESHIRE. 

Here lie Willie M— hie's banes, 
O Satan, when ye tak' him, 

Gie him the schoohn' of your weans ) 
For clever Deils he'll mak' 'em ! 



ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788. 

A SKETCH. 

For Lords or Kings I dinna mourn, 

E'en let them die — for that they're born : 

But oh ! prodigious to reflec' ! 

A Toicmond, Sirs, is gane to wreck ! 

O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space 

What dire events ha'e taken place ! 

Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us ! 

In what a pickle thou hast left us ! 
The Spanish empire's tint a head. 

An' my old teethless Bawtie's dead ; 

The tulzie's sair 'tween Pitt an' Fox, 

And 'tween our Maggie's twa wee cocks ; 

The tane is game, a bluidy devil, 

But to the hen-birds unco civil ; 

The tithers something dour o' treadin, 

But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden. — 
Ye ministers, come mount the poupit, 

An' cry till ye be haerse an' roupet. 
For Eighty-eight he wish'd you weel. 
An' gied you a' baith gear an' meal; 
E'en monie a plack, and monie a peck, 

Ye ken yoursels, for little feck ! — 

Ye bonnie lasses, dight your e'en, 
For some o' you hae tint a frien' ; 
In Eighty-eight ye ken, was ta'en 
What ye'll ne'er hae to gie again. 

Observe the very nowte an' sheep, 
How dowf and daviely they creep ; 
Nay, even the yirth itsel' does cry, 
For E'nbrugh wells are grutten dry. 
O Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn, 
An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn ! 
Thou beardless boy, I pray tak' care, 
Thou now has got thy Daddy's chair, 
Nae hand-cuff'd, mizzl'd, hap-shackl'd Re- 
gent, 
But, like himsel' a full free agent. 
Be sure ye follow out the plan 
Nae waur than he did, honest man : 
As muckle better as you can. 
January 1, 1789. 



VERSES 

WRITTEN AT A TIME WHEN THE POET WAS 
ABOUT TO LEAVE SCOTLAND. 

O'er the mist-shrowded cliffs of the lonc 
mountain straying. 
Where the wild winds of winter incessant- 
ly rave. 
What woes ring my heart while intently 
surveying 
The storms gloomy path on the breast of 
the wave. 

Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail, 
Ere ye toss me afar from my lov'd native 
shore ; 
Where the flower which bloom'd sweetest 
in Coila's green vale, 
The pride of my bosom, my Mary's no 
more. 



96 



BURNS S POEMS. 



No more by the banks of the streamlet we'll 
wander, 
And smile at the moon's rimpled face in 
the wave ; 
No more shall my arms cling with fondness 
around her, 
For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on 
her grave. 

No more shall the soft thrill of love warm 
my breast, 
1 haste with the storm to a far distant 
shore ; 
Where unknown, unlamented, my ashes 
shall rest, 
And joy shall revisit my bosom no more. 



VERSES 
Written under the Portrait of Fergusson the 
Poet, in a Copy of that Author's Works 
presented to a young Lady in Edinburgh^ 
March 19th, 1787. 

Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleas'd. 
And yet can starve the author of the plea- 
sure! 
O thou, my elder brother in misfortune. 
By far my elder brother in the muses. 
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate ! 
Why is the bard unpitied by the world, 
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures ? 



DELIA. 

AN ODE. 

Fair the face of orient day, 
Fair the tints of op'ning rose ; 
But fairer still my Delia dawns, 
More lovely far her beauty blows. 

Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay, 
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear ;\ 
But, Delia, more delightful still 
Steal thine accents on mine ear. 

The flower-enamour'd busy bee 
The rosy banquet loves to sip ; 
Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse 
To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip ; 

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips 
Let me, no vagrant insect, rove ! 
O let me steal one liquid kiss ! 
For oh '. my soul is parch'd with love ! 



ON THE DEATH OF 

SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. 

The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare. 
Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western 
wave; 
Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the dark- 
'ning air. 
And hollow wbistl'd in the rocky cave. 



Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell, 
Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal 
train ;* 
Or mus'd where limpid streams, once hal- 
low'd, well,t 
Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane.:|; 

Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beet- 
ling rocks, 
The clouds swift-wing'd flew o'er the star- 
ry sky. 
The groaning trees untimely shed their locks. 
And shooting meteors caught the startled 
eye. 

The paly moon rose in the livid East, 
And 'mong the cliffs disclosed a stately 
Form, 
In weeds of wo that frantic beat her breast, 
And mix'd her wailings with the raving 
storm. 

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 
'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I 
view'd : 

Her form majestic droop'd in pensive wo, 
The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. 

Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war, 
Reclin'd that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd, 

That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar, 
And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the 
world. — 

" My patriot son fills an untimely grave !" 
With accents wild and lifted arms she 
cried ; 
" Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to 
save, 
Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest 
pride ! 

" A weeping country joins a widow's tear, 
The helpless poor mix with the orphan's 
cry; 
The drooping arts surround their patron's 
bier, 
And grateful science heaves the heartfelt 
sigh.— 

" I saw my sons resume their ancient fire ; 

I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow ; 
But, ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! 

Relentless fate has laid this guardian 
low. — 

*' My patriot falls, but shall he lie imsung. 
While empty greatness saves a worthless 
name ? 

No ; every Muse shall join her tuneful tongue, 
And future ages bear his growing fame. 

'' And I will join a mother's tender cares, 
Thro' future times to make his virtues 
last. 
That distant years may boast of other 
Blairs,"— 
She said, and vanished with the sweeping 
blast. ^ 

* The King's Park, at Holyrood House. 
t St. Anthony's Well | St. Anthony's Chapel. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



97 



Written on the Blank Leaf of a Copy of the 
Poems, presented to an old Sweetheart, 
then married. 

Once fondly lov'd, and still remember 'd dear, 
Sweet early object of my youthful vows, 

Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere; 
Friendship ! 'tis all cold duty now allows. — 

And when yoii read the simple artless 

rhymes, 
One friendly sigh for him ; he asks no more, 
Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes, 
Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar. 



THE KIRK'S ALARM.* 

A SATIRE. 

Orthodox, Orthodox, wha believe in John 
Knox, 
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience : 
There's a heretic blast has been blawn in 
the wast, 
That what is no sense must be nonsense. 

Dr. Mac,! Dr. Mac, you should stretch on 
a rack. 

To strike evil doers wi' terror ', 
To join faith and sense upon ony pretence, 

Is heretic, damnable error. 

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad I de- 
clare. 
To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing ; 
Provost John is still deaf to the church's re- 
lief, 
And orator Bobt is its ruin. 

D'rymple mild§, D'rymple mild, tho' your 
heart's like a child, 
And your life like the new driven snaw, 
Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must 
have ye. 
For preaching that three's ane and twa. 

Rumble John,|| Rumble John, mount the 
steps wi' a groan. 
Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd ; 
Then lug out your ladle, deal brimstane like 
addle. 
And roar ev'ry note of the damn'd. 

Simper James,lf Simper James, leave the 
fair Killie dames. 
There's a holier chase in your view ; 
I'll lay on your head, that the pack ye'il soon 
lead, 
For puppies like you there's but few. 

Singet Sawney,** Singet Sawney, are ye 
herding the penny, 
Unconscious what evils await ? 



* This Poem was written a short time after 
the publication of Dr. M'Gill's Essay, 
f Dr. M'Gill. 

t R — tA— kin. ^Mr.D^m— le. || Mr. R-ss-ll. 
IT Mr. M'K~y. 
** Mx. M y. 

13 



Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every soul, 
For the foul thief is just at j'our gate. 

Daddy Auld,* Daddy Auld, there's a tod in 
the fauld, 
A tod meikle waur than the Clerk ; 
Tho' ye can do little skaith, ye'll be in at the 
death. 
And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark. 

Davie Bluster,t Davie Bluster, if for a saint 
ye do muster. 
The corps is no nice of recruits : 
Yet to worth let's be just, royal blood ye 
might boast. 
If the ass was the king of the brutes. 

Jamy Goose,t Jamy Goose, ye hae made but 
toom roose. 
In hunting the wicked lieutenant j 
But the Doctor's your mark, for the L — d's 
haly ark, 
He has cooper'd and caw'd a wrang pin 
in't. 

Poet Willie, § Poet Willie, gie the Doctor a 
volley, 

Wi' your liberty's chain and your wit ; 
O'er Pegasus' side ye ne'er laid astride, 

Ye but smelt, man, the place where he sh-t. 

Andro Gouk,]! Andro Gouk, ye may slander 

the book. 

And the book no the waur, let me tell ye ! 

Ye are rich and look big, but lay by hat and 

wig, 

And ye 11 hae a calf s head o' small value. 

Barr Steenie,*il Barr Steenie, what mean ye ? 
what mean ye ? 
If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, 
Ye may hae some pretence to bavins and 
sense, 
Wi' people wha ken ye nae better. 

Irvine Side,** Irvine Side, wi' your turkey 
cock pride, 
Of manhood but sma' is your share ; 
Ye've the figure, 'tis true, even your faes 
will allow. 
And your friends they dare grant you nao 
mair. 

Muirland Jock,tt Muirland Jock, when the 
L — d makes a rock 
To crush common sense for her sins, 
If ill manners were wit, there's no mortal so 
fit 
To confound the poor Doctor at ance. 



* Mr, S d. 

fMr. S hofG— n. 

I Mr. S n Y g of B- 

5 Dr. A. M— 11. 

II Mr. F— b— sof A— r. 
IF Mr. Y— gofC— n-k. 

** Mr. G 1 of 0—1— e. 

ft Mr. A— d. 



98 



BURNS S POEMS. 



Holy Will,* Holy Will, there was wit i' your 

skull, 

When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor ; 

The timmer is scant when ye're ta'en for a 

saint, 

Wha should swing in a rape for an hour. 

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your spir'- 
tual guns, 
Ammunition you never can need ; 
Your hearts are the stuff will be pouthcr 
enough, 
And your skulls are storehouses o' lead. 

Poet Burns, Poet Burns, wi' your priest 
skelping turns, 

Why desert ye your auld native shire ? 
Your muse is a gipsie,e'en tho' she were tipsie, 

She Cou'd ca' us nae waur than we are. 

THE TWA HERDS.t 

O a' ye pious godly flocks, 
Well fed on pastures orthodox, 
Wha now will keep ye frae the fox, 

Or worrying tykes, 
Or wha will tent the waifs and crooks. 

About the dykes ? 

The twa best herds in a' the wast, 
That e'er gae gospel horn a blast, 
These five and twenty summers past, 

O dool to tell : 
Hao had a bitter black out-cast, 

Atween themsel'. 

O, M y, man, and wordy R 11, 

How could you raise so vile a bustle, 
Ye'll see how new-light herds will whistle, 

And think it fine ! 
The Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle. 

Sin' I hae min'. 

O, Sirs, whae'er wad hae expeckit 

Your duty ye wad sae ncgleckit. 

Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit, 

To wear the plaid, 
But by the brutes themselves eleckit 

To be their guide 

What flock wi' M y's flock could rank, 

Sae hale and hearty every shank, 
Nae poison'd eoor Arminian stank 

Ho let them taste, 
Frae Calvin's well, aye clear, they drank, 

O' sic a feast ! 

The thummart wil'-cat, brock and tod, 
Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood. 
He smell'd their ilka hole and road, 

Baith out and in. 
And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid, 

And sell their skin. 



What herd like R- 



-11 telFd his tale^ 



* An Elder in M e. 

t This piece was among the first of our Au- 
thor's proiluctions which he submitted to tlie pub- 
lic, and was occasioned by a dispute between two 
Clergymen, near Kilmarnock. 



His voice was heard thro' muir and dale^ 
He kenn'd tho Lord's sheep, ilka tail,^ 

O'er a' the height. 
And saw gin they were sick or hale, 

At the first sight. 

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub, 

Or nobly fling the gospel club. 

And new-light herds could nicely drub, 

Or pay their skin, 
Could shake them owre the burning dub^ 

Or heave them in. 

Sic twa — O ! do I live to see't. 
Sic famous twa should disagreet. 
An' names, like villain, hypocrite, 

Ilk ither gi'en, 
While new-light herds wi' laughin' spite, 

Say neither's liein' ! 

A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld, 

There's D n deep, and P s shaul, 

But chiefly thou, apostle A — d. 

We trust in thee. 
That thou wilt work them, hot and cauld, 

Till they agree. 

Consider, Sirs, how we're beset. 
There's scarce a new herd that we get, 
But come's frae 'mang that cursed set 

I winna name, 
I hope frae heav'n to see them yet 

In fiery flame. 

-c has been lang our fae, 
-11 has wrought us meikle wae. 



D- 

M'- 

And that curs'd rascal ca'd M'- 



And baith the S- 



That aft hae made us black and blae, 

Wi' vengefu' paws. 



-s. 



Auld W- 



-w lang has hatch'd mischief, 



We thought aye death wad bring rehef. 
But he has gotten, to our grief, 

Ane to succeed him, 
A chiel wha'll soundly bufl"our beef; 

I meikle dread hira. 

And mony a ane that I could tell, 
Wha fain would openly rebel, 
Forby turn-coats amang oursel. 

There S h for ane, 

I doubt he's but a grey nick quill, 

And that ye'll fin'. 

O ! a' ye flocks, o'er a' the hills, 

By mosses, meadows, moors and fells. 

Come join your counsel and your skills, 

To cowe ihe lairds, 
And get the brutes the powefthemsels 

To choose their herds. 

Then Orthodoxy yet may pranco. 
And Learning in a woody dance. 
And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, 

That bites sae sair, 
Be banish'd o'er the sea to France ; 

Let him bark there ! 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



99 



Then Shaw's and D'rimple's eloquence, 

M' IJ's close nervous excellence, 

M'Q .'s pathetic manly sense; 

And guid M' h, 

Wi' S th, wha thro' the heart can glance, 

May a' pack afF. 

-•►»©@©*««» 

HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER. 

Thou, wha in the heavens dost dwell, 
Wha as it pleases best thysel', 

Sends ane to heaven and ten to hell, 
A' for thy glory. 

And no for ony guid or ill 

They've done afore thee ! 

1 bless and praise thy matchless might. 
Whan thousands thou hast left in night, 
That I am here afore thy sight, 

For gifts an' grace, 
A burnin' an' a shinin' light, 

To a' this place. 

What was I, or my generation. 
That I should get such exaltation, 
I, wha deserve sic just damnation, 

For broken laws, 
Five thousand years 'fore my creation. 

Thro' Adam's cause. 

When frae my mither's womb I fell, 
Thou might ha'e plunged me in hell. 
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail. 

In burnin' lake, 
Whar damned devils roar and yell, 

Chain'd to a stake. 

Yet I am here a chosen sample. 

To show thy grace is great an' ample ; 

I'm here a pillar in thy temple. 

Strong as a rock, 
A guide, a buckler, an' example, 

To a' thy flock. 

But yet, O L — d ! confess I must. 
At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust ; 
An' sometimes too, wi' warldly trust, 

Vile self gets in ; 
But thou remembers we are dust, 

Defil'd in sin. 

O L — d ! yestreen, thou kens, wi' Meg 

Thy pardon I sincerely beg, 

O ! may it ne'er be a livin' plague 

To my dishonour, 
An' I'll ne'er lift a lawless 1-g 

Again upon her. 

Besides, I farther maun allow, 

Wi' Lizzie's lass three times I trow ; 

But, L — d, that Friday I was fou. 

When I came near her, 
Or else, thou kens, thy servant true 

Wad ne'er ha'e steer'd her. 

Maybe thou lets this JlesJibj thorn, 
Beset thy servant e'er\and morn, 



Lest he oWre high and proud shou'd turn, 

'Cause he's sae gifted; 

If sae, thy han' maun e'en be borne, 
Until thou lift it. 

L — d, bless thy chosen in this place, 

For here thou hast a chosen race ; 

But G— d confound their stubborn face. 

And blast their name, 
Wha bring thy elders to disgrace. 

An public shame, 



-n's deserts, 



L — d, mind G n H— ^ 

He drinks, and swears, and plays at cartes, 
Yet has sae mony takin' arts, 

Wi' grit and sma', 
Frae G — d's ain priest the people's hearts 

He steals awa'. 

An' whan we chasten'd him therefore, 
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore, 
As Bet the warld in a roar 

O' laughin' at us ; 
Curse thou his basket and his store, 

Kail an' potatoes. 

L — d, hear my earnest cry an' pray'r, 

Against the presbyt'ry o' Ayr ; 

Thy strong right hand, L— d make it bare, 

Upo' their heads, 
L — d weigh it down, and dinna spare. 

For their misdeeds, 

O L — d my G-d, that glib-tongu'd A n, 

My very heart an' soul are quakin', 

To think how we stood sweatin', shakin', 

An' p — d wi' dread, 
While he, wi' hlngin' ligs and snakin', 

Held up his head. 

L — d', in the day of vengeance try him, 
L — d, visit them wha did employ him, 
An' pass not in thy mercy by 'em, 

Nor hear their pray'r ; 
But, for thy people's sake, destroy 'em, 

And dinna spare. 

But, L — d, remember me and mine 
Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine. 
That I for gear and grace may shine, 

Excell'd by nane. 
An' a' the glory shall be thine, 

Amen, Amen. 



EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE. 

Here Holy Willie's fair worn clay 

Taks up his last abode ; 
His saul has ta'en some other way, 

I fear, the left-hand road. 

Stop ! there he is as sure's a gun, 

Poor sillie body, see him ; 
Nae wonder he's as black's the grun, 

Observe wha's standing wi' him. 

Your brunstano devilship, I see. 
Has got him there before ye j 



100 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



But ha'd your nine-tail cat a wee, 
Till ance you've heard my story. 

Your pity I will not implore, 

For pity ye have nane ; 
Justice, alas ! has gi'en him o'er, 

And mercy's day is gaen. 

But hear me, Sir, de'il as ye are. 
Look something to your credit ; 

A coof like him wou'd stain your name, 
If it were kent ye did it. 



THE HENPECKED HUSBAND. 

Curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life, 
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife 1 
Who has no will but by her high permission ; 
Who has not sixpence but in her possession ; 
Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell ; 
Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell. 
Were such the wife had fallen to my part, 
I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart : 
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch, 
I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse 
b— h. 

EPITAPH, 
ON A hf.npeck'd country-sq,uire. 

As father Adam first was fool'd, 
A case that's still too common, 

Here lies a man a woman rul'd, 
The devil rul'd the woman. 



EPIGRAM 

ON SAID OCCASION. 

O Death, had'st thou but spar'd his life 
Whom we this day lament ! 

We freely wad exchang'd the wife, 
And a' been weel content. 

Ev'n as he is, cauld in his graf, 
The swap we yet will do't ; 

Take thou the Carlin's carcase afF. 
Thou'se get the saui o' boot. 



ANOTHER. 

Gne Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell. 
When depriv'd of her husband she loved so 

well. 
In respect for the love and affection he'd 

shewn her, 
She reduc'd himlo dust, and she drank up the 

powder. 

But Queen N**-****, ofa diffterent com- 
plexion, 

When call'd on to order the fun'ral direction, 

Would have eat her dead lord, on a slender 
pretence. 

Not to shew her respect, but — to save the ex- 
pense. 



ADDRESS 

TO AN ILLEGITIMATE CHILD. 

Thou's welcome wean ! mishanter fa' me, 
If ought of thee, or of thy mammy, 
Shall ever danton me, or awe me, 

My sweet wee lady, 
Or if I blush when thou shall ca' me, 

Tit-ta or daddy. 

Wee image of my bonny Betty, 
I fatherly will kiss and daut thee, 
As dear an' near my heart I set thee 

Wi' as gude will. 
As a' the priests had seen me get thee 

That's out o' h-ll. 

What tho' they ca' me fornicator. 
An' tease my name in kintra clatter : 
The mair they talk I'm kent the better, 

E'en let them clash ; 
An auld wife tongue's a feckless matter 

To gie ane fash. 

Sweet fruit o' mony a merry dint. 

My funny toil is now a' tint, 

Sin' thou came to the warld asklent. 

Which fools may scoflfat ; 
In my last plack thy part's be in't — 

The better haffo't. 

An' if thou be what I wad hae thee, 
An' tak' the counsel I shall gie thee, 
A lovin' father I'll be to thee. 

If thou be spar'd ; 
Thro' a' thy childish years I'll ee thee, 

An' think't weel war'd- 

Gude grant that thou may aye inherit 
Thy mither's person, grace, an' merit, 
An' thy poor worthless daddy's spirit, 

Without his failing, 
'Twill please me mair to hear an' see't. 

Than stockit mailing. 



WRITTEN ON A 



VERSES 

WINDOW 
CARRON. 



OF THE INN AT 



We camena' here to view your warks 

In hopes to be mair wise, 
But only, lest we gang to hell, 

It may be nae surprize. 

But when we tirl'd at your door, 
Your porter doutna hear us ; 

Sae may, should we to hell's yetts come. 
Your billy Satan sair us ! 

LINES 

Written by Burns, while on his J>eath-hed. 
to John Ranken, Ayrshire, and forwarded 
to him immediately after the Poets death. 

He who of Ranken sang, lies stiff and dead; 
And a green grassy hillock hides his head ; 
Alas .' alas ! a devilish change indeed ,'' 



BURNS S POEMS. 



101 



VERSES 
Addressed to the above J. Ranken, on his 
writing to the Poct^ that a Girl in that 
part of the country was with child to him. 

I am a keeper of the law 

In some sma' points, altho' not a' ; 

Some people tell me gin I fa', 

Ae way or ither. 
The breaking of ae point, tho' sma', 

Breaks a' thegither. 

I hae been in for't ance or twice. 
And winna say owre far for thrice, 
Yet never met with that surprize 

That broke my rest. 
But now a rumour's like to rise, 

A waup's i' the nest. 

EPIGRAM. 

{Burns, accompanied by a friend, having 
gone to Inverary, at a time when some 
company were there on a visit to his Grace 
the Duke of Argyll, finding himself and 
his companion entirely neglected by the 
Inn-keeper, whose whole attention seemed 
to be occupied with the visitors of his 
Grace, expressed his disapprobation of 
the incivility with which they were treated 
in the following lines.Ji 

Whoe'er he be that sojourns here, 

I pity much his case, 
Unless he come to wait upon 

The Lord their God his Grace. 

There's naething here but Highland pride, 
And Highland scab and hunger ; 

If Providence has sent me here, 
'Twas surely in an anger. 



jH a Meeting of the Dumfriesshire Volun- 
teers, held to commemorate the Anniversa- 
ry of Rodney's Victory, April 12, 1782, 
Burns was called upon for a Song, instead 
of which, he delivered the following Lines 
extempore. 

Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast, — 

Here's the memory of those on the twelfth 
that we lost : 

That we lost, did I say ? nay, by heav'n, that 
we found. 

For their fame it shall last while the world 
goes round. 

The next in succession, I'll give you the King, 

Whoe'er would betray him, on high may he 
swing ! 

And here's the grand fabric, our free Consti- 
tution, 

As built on the base of the great Revolution ; 

And longer with Politics, not to be cramm'd. 

Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Tyranny damn'd ; 

And who would to Liberty e'er prove dis- 
loyal, 

May his son be a hangman, and he his first 
trial! 



LINES 

ON BEING ASKED, WHY GOD HAD MADE MISS 
DAVIES SO LITTLE AND MRS. * * * SO LARGE. 

Written on a Pane of Glass in the Inn 

at Moffat. 
Ask why God made the gem so small, 

An' why so huge the granite ? 
Because God meant mankind should set 

The higher value on it. 

ON MISS J. SCOTT, OF AYR. 

Oh ! had each Scot of ancient times, 
Been, Jeany Scott, as thou art, 
The bravest heart on English ground 
Had yielded like a coward. 

EPISTLE FROM A TAILOR 

TO 

ROBERT BURNS. 
What waefu' news is this I hear, 
Frae greeting I can scarce forbear, 
Folks tell me, yc're gawn affthis yer. 
Out o'er the sea, 
And lasses wham ye lo'e sae dear 

Will greet for thee. 

Weel wad I like war ye to stay 
But, Robin, since ye will away, 
I hae a word yet mair to say, 

And maybe twa ; 
May he protect us night an' day, 

That made us a'. 

Whaur thou art gaun, keep mind frae mo 
Seek him to bear ye companie, 
And, Robin, whan ye come to die, 

Ye '11 won aboon. 
An' live at peace an' unity 

Ayont the moon. 

Some tell me, Rab, ye dinna fear 
To get a wean, an' curse an' swear, 
I'm unco wae, my lad, to hear 

O' sic a trade, 
Cou'd I persuade ye to forbear, 

I wad be glad. 

Fu' weel ye ken ye'll gang to hell, 

Gin ye persist in doing ill — 

Waes me : ye're hurlin' down the hill 

Withouten dread. 
An' ye'll get leave to swear your fill 

After ye're dead. 

There walth o' women ye'll get near, 
But gettin' weans ye will forbear, 
Ye'll never say my bonnie dear 

Come, gie's a kiss — 
Nae kissing there— ye'll grin an' sneer, 

An' ither hiss. 

O Rab ! lay by thy foolish tricks. 

An' steer nae mair the female sex, 

Or some day ye'll come through the pricks, 

An' that ye'll see ; 
Ye'll find hard living wi' Auld Nicks; 

I'm wae for thee. 



102 



BURNS S POEMS. 



But what's this comes wi' sic a knell, 

Amaist as loud as ony bell ? 

While it does mak' my conscience tell 

Me what is true, 
I'm but a ragget cowt mysel, 

Owre sib to you ! 

We're owre like those wha think it fit, 
To stuff their noddles fu' o' wit, 
An' yet content in darkness sit, 

Wha shun the light, 
To let them see down to the pit. 

That lang, dark night. 

But farewell, Rab, I maun awa', 
May he that made us keep us a', 
For that would be a dreadfu' fa' 

And hurt us sair, 
Lad, ye wad never mend ava, 

Sae, Rab, tak' care. 



ANSWER TO A POETICAL EPISTLE, 

SENT THK AUTHOR BY A TAILOR. 

What ails ye now, ye lousie b h, 

To thresh my back at sic a pitch ? 
Losh, man! hao mercy wi your natch, 

Your bodkin's bauld, 
I didna suffer haff sae much 

Frae Daddie Auld. 

What tho' at times when I grow crouse, 
I gie their wames a random pouse, 
Is that enough for you to souse 

Your servant sae .'' 
Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-louse, 

An' jag-the-fiae. 

King David o' poetic brief, 

Wrought 'mang the lasses sic mischief. 

As fiU'd his after life wi' grief 

An' bloody rants, 
An' yet he's rank'd a mang the chief 

O' lang-syne saunts. 

And maybe, Tam, for a' my cants. 
My wicked rhymes, an' drunken rants, 
I'll gie auld cloven Clooty's haunts 

An unco slip yet. 
An' snugly sit araang the saunts, 

At Davie's hip yet. 

But fegs, the Session says I maun 
Gae fa' upon anither plan. 
Than garren lasses cowp the cran 

Clean heels owre body, 
And sairly thole their mither's ban 

Afore the howdy. 

This leads me on, to tell for sport, 
How I did with the Session sort — 
Auld Clinkura at the Inner port 

Cry'd three times, "Ro- 
bin!" 
" Come hither, lad, an' answer for't, 

Ye 're blam'd for jobbin." 

Wi' pinch I put a Sunday's face on. 
An' suQov'd awa before the Session — 



I made an open fair confession, 

I scorn'd to lie ; 
An' syne Mess John, beyond expression, 
Fell foul o' me. 

A fornicator-loim he call'd me, 

An' said my fau't frae bhss expcll'd me ; 

I own'd the tale was true he tell'd me, 

' But what the matter ?' 
Quo' I, * I fear unless ye geld me, 

I'll ne'er be better.' 

" Geld you !" quo' he, " and whatfore no ? 
If that your right hand, leg, or toe. 
Should ever prove your sp'ritual foe, 

You shou'd remember 
To cut it aff, an' whatfore no 

Your dearest member ?" 

' Na, na,' quo I, ' I'm no for that, .^.^ 
Gelding's nae better than 'tis ca't, 
I'd rather suffer for my faut 

A hearty flewit, 
As sair owre hip as ye can draw't, 

Tho' I should rue it. 

' Or gin ye like to end the bother. 
To please us a', I've just ae ither. 
When next wi' yon lass I forgather, 

Whae'er betide it, 
I'll frankly gie her't a' thegither, 

An' let her guide it.' 

But, Sir, this pleas'd them warst ava. 
An' therefore, Tam, when that I saw, 
1 said, ' Gude night,' and cam awa, 

And left the Session ; 
1 saw they were resolved a' 

On my oppression. 

ELEGY 

OK THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUISSEAUX.* 

Now Robin lies in his last lair, 

He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair, 

Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare, 

Nae mair shall fear him ; 
Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care, 

E'er mair come near him. 

To tell the truth, they seldom fash't him. 
Except the moment that they crush't him ; 
For sune as chance or fate had husht 'em, 

Tho' e'er so short, 
Then wi' a rhyme or sang he lasht 'em, 

And thought it sport. — 

Tho' he was bred to kintra wark. 

And counted was baith wight and stark, 

Yet that was never Robin's mark 

To mak' a man ; 
But tell him, he was learn'd and dark, 

Ye roos'd him than I 



LIBERTY.— A FRAGMENT. 

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, 
Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred 
song. 



* Ruisseaux — a play upon his own name. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



103 



To thee I turn with swimming eyes 5 
Where is that soul of freedom fled ? 
Imminglod with the mighty dead ! 

Beneath the hallow'd turf where Wallace 
lies ! 
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death ! 

Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep ; 

Disturb not ye the hero's sleep, 
Nor give the coward secret breath. — 

Is this the power in freedom's war, 

That wont to bid the battle rage ? 
Behold that eye which shot immortal hate, 

Crushing the despot's proudest bearing. 
That arm which, nerved with thundering 
fate, 

Brav'd usurpation's boldest daring! 
One quench'd in darkness like the sinking 

star, 
And one the palsied arm of tottering power- 
less age. 



LETTER TO JOHN GOUDIE, 
KILMARNOCK, 

ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS. 

O Goudie ! terror o' the Whigs, 
Dread o' black coats and rev'rend wigs, 
Sour Bigotry, on her last legSj 

Girnin' looks back, 
Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues 

Wad seize you quick. 

Poor gapin' glowrin' Superstition, 

Waes me ! she's in a sad condition ; 

Fy, bring Black-Jock, her state physician, 

To see her w-ter ; 
Alas ! there's ground o' great suspicion 

She'll ne'er get better. 

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple, 
But now she's got an unco ripple ; 
Hase, gie her name up i' the chapel. 

Nigh unto death ; 
See how she fetches at the thrapple, 

An' gasps for breath. 

Enthusiasm's past redemption, 

Gaen in a galloping consumption. 

Not a' the quacks, wi' a' their gumption, 

Will ever mend her. 
Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption. 

Death soon will end her. 

'Tis you and Taylor* are the chief, 
Wha are to blame for this mischief; 
But gin the Lord's ain focks gat leave, 

A toom tar-barrel 
An' twa red peats wad send relief. 

An' end the quarrel. 

LETTER TO J— S T— T, GL-NC-R. 

Auld comrade dear and brither sinner, 
How's a' the folk about Gl — nc — r ; 
How do you this blae eastlin wind. 
That's like to blaw a body blind ? 



* Dr. Taylor of Norwich. 



For md, my faculties are frozen, 

My dearest member nearly dozen'd. 

I've sent you here by Johnie Simpson^ 

Twa sage philosophers 10 glimpse on ', 

Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling, 

An' Reid, to common sense appealing. 

Philosophers have fought an' wrano-led, 

An' meikle Greek an' Latin mangled, 

Till wi' their logic-jargon tir'd, 

An' in the depth of science mir'd. 

To common sense they now appeal, 

What wives an' wabsters see an' feel. 

But, hark ye, friend, I charge you strictly, 

Peruse them, an' return them quickly. 

For now I'm grown sae cursed douse, 

I pray an' ponder butt the house. 

My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin', 

Perusing Bunyan, Brown, and Boston ; 

Till by an' by, if I baud on, 

I'll grunt a real Gospel-groan : 

Already I begin to try it. 

To cast my een up like a pyet, 

When by the gun she tumbles o'er, 

Flutt'ring an' gasping in her gore : 

Sae shortly you shall see me bright, 

A burning an' a shining light. 

My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen, 
The ace an' wale of honest men : 
When bending down wi' auld gray hairs, 
Beneath the load of years and cares. 
May He who made him still support him. 
An' views beyond the grave comfort him. 
His worthy fam'ly far and near, 
God bless them a' wi' grace and gear ! 

My auld school-fellow, Preacher Willie, 
The manly tar, my mason Billie, 
An' Auchenbay, I wish him joy ; 
If he's a parent, lass or boy. 
May he be dad, and Meg the mither, 
Just five-and-forty years thegither ! 
An' no forgetting wabster Charlie, 
I'm tauld he offer's very fairly. 
An' L — d, remember singing Sannock, 
Wi' hale-breeks, saxpence, an' a bannock. 
An' next, my auld acquaintance, Nancy, 
Since she is fitted to her fancy ; 
An' her kind stars hae airted till her 
A guid chiel wi' a pickle siller. 
My kindest, best respects I sen' it, 
To cousin Kate an' sister Janet ; 
Tell them frae me, wi' chiels be cautious. 
For, faith, they'll aiblins fin' them fashous : 
To grant a heart is fairly civil. 
But to grant a maidenhead's the devil. — 
An' lastly, Jamie, for yoursel'. 
May guardian angels tak' a spell, 
An' steer you seven miles south o' hell : 
But first, before you see heav'ns glory, 
May ye get mony a merry story, 
Mony a laugh, and mony a drink. 
An' aye eneugh o' needfu' clink. 

Now fare ye weel, an' joy be wi' you, 
For my sake this I beg it o' you. 
Assist poor Simson a' ye can. 
Ye 'II fin' him just an honest man ; 
Sac I conclude and quat my chanter, 
Your's, saint or sinner, 

Rob the Ranter. 



104 



BURNS S POEMS. 



ON THE DEATH OF A LAP-DOG, 
NAMED ECHO. 

In wood and wild, ye warbling throng, 

Your heavy loss deplore ; 
Now half extinct your powers of song, 

Sweet Echo is no more. 

Ye jarring scroeching things around, 

Scream your discordant joys j 
Now half your din of tuneless sound 

With Echo silent lies. 



TO MY DEAR AND MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, 
MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP. 

ON SENSIBILITY. 

Sensibility, how charming, 

Thou, my friend, canst truly tell ; 

But distress with horrors arming, 
Thou hast also known too well ! 

Fairest flower, behold the lily, 

Blooming in the sunny ray ; 
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley, 

See it prostrate on the clay. 

Hear the wood-lark charm the forest, 

Telling o'er his little joys ; 
Hapless bird ! a prey the surest, 

To each pirate of the skies. 

Dearly bought the hidden treasure, 

Finer feelings can bestow ; 
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleai^urc. 

Thrill the deepest notes of wo. 



CALEDONIA. 

Tune — " Caledonian HunVs Delight" 

There was once a day, but old Time then 
was young, 
That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, 
From some of your northern deities sprung, 
(Who knows not that brave Caledorua's 
divine .?) 
From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain. 
To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she 
would : 
Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign, 
And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant 
it good. 

A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, 

The pride of her kindred the heroine grew: 
Her grandsire,old Odin, triumphantly swore, 
"Whoe'er shall provoke thee, th' encoun- 
ter shall rue !" 
With tillage or pasture at times she would 
sport, 
To feed her fair flocks by her green rust- 
ling corn ? 
But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort, 
Her darling amusement, the hounds and 
the horn. 



Long quiet she reign'd ; till thitherward 
steers 
A flight of bold eagles from Adria's 
strand : 
Repeated, successive, for many long years, 
They darken'd the air, and they plunder'd 
the land : 
Their pounces were murder, and terror their 
cry, 
They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world be- 
side ; 
She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly, 
The daring invaders they fled or they died. 

The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the 
north, 
The scourge of the seas, and the dread of 
the shore ; 
The wild Scandinavian boar issu'd forth 

To wanton in carnage and wallow in gore : 
O'er countries and kingdoms the fury pre- 
vail'd, 
No arts could appease them, no arms could 
repel ; 
But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd, 
As Largs well can witness, and Loncartic 
tell. 

The Chameleon-savage disturb' d her repose. 

With tumult, disquiet, rebellion and strife, 
Provok'd beyond bearing, at last she arose. 

And robb'd him at once of his hopes and 
his life : 
The Anglian lion, the terror of France, 

Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's 
silver flood ; 
But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance. 

He learn'd to fear in his own native wood. 

Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and 
free, 
Her bright course of glory for ever shall 
run, 
For brave Caledonia immortal must be ; 

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun ; 
Rectangle-triangle, the figure we'll choose, 
The upright is Chance, and old Time is 
the base ; 
But brave Caledonia's the hypothenusc ; | 
Then ergo, she'll match them, and match 
them always. 

THE DEAN OF FACULTY. 

A NEW BALLAD. 

Tune — The Dragon of Wantlerj. 

Dire was the hate at old Harlaw, 

That Scot to Scot did carry ; 
And dire the discord Langside saw. 

For beauteous, hapless Mary : 
But Scot with Scot ne'er met so hot 

Or were more in fury seen, Sir, 
Than 'twixt Hal and Boh for the famous job- 

Who should be Faculty's Dean^ Sir. — 



BURNS S POEMS. 



105 



This Hal for genius, wit, and love, 
Among the first was number'd ; 

But pious Boh, 'mid learning's store, 
Commandment tenth remember'd ; — 

Yet simple Bob the victory got, 

■ And won his heart's desire ; 

Which shows that heaven can boil the pot, 
Though the devil p — s in the fire. — 

Squire Hal, besides, had in this case, 

Pretensions rather brassy, 
For talents to deserve a place 

Are qualifications saucy ; 
So their worships of the Faculty, 

Quite sick of merit's rudeness, 
Chose one who should owe it all, d'ye see, 

To their gratis grace and goodness. 

As once on Pisgah purg'd was the sight 

Of a son of Circumcision, 
So may be, on this Pisgah height, 

Rob^s purblind, mental vision : 
Nay, Bobby's mouth may be open'd yet, 

Till for eloquence you hail him, 
And swear he has the Angel met 

That met the Ass of Balaam. — 



EXTEMPORE IN THE COURT OF 

SESSION. 

Tune — Gillicrankie. 



lORD A- 



-TE. 



He clench'd his pamphlets in his fist, 

He quoted and he hinted, 
Till in a declamation-mist, 

His argument he tint it : 
He gaped for 't, he graped for 't, 

He fand it was awa, man ; 
But what his common sense came short, 

He eked out wi' law, man. 

** MR. ER — NE. 

Collected Harry stood awee. 

Then open'd out his arm, man ; 
His lordship sat wi' ruefu' ee. 

And ey'd the gathering storm, man; 
Like wind-driv'n hail it did assail. 

Or torrents owre a lin, man ; 
The Bench sae wise lift up their eyes 

Half-wauken'd wi' the din, man. 



LINES, 

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW, AT THE KINg's ARMS' 
TAVERN, DUMFRIES. 

Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this 
sneering 
'Gainst poor Excisemen .'' give the cause a 
hearing ; 
What are your landlords' rent-rolls ; taxing 
ledgers ; 
What premiers, what ? even Monarch's 
mighty gaugers : 

14 



Nay, what are priests ? those seeming godly 
wise men ; 
What are they, pray, but spiritual Excise- 
men.' 



EXTEMPORE LINES, 

IN ANSWER TO A CARD FROM AN INTIMATE OF 
BURNS, WISHING HIM TO SPEND AN HOUR 
AT A TAVERN. 

The King's most humble servant I, 

Can scarcely spare a minute j 
But I'll be wi' ye by an' by ; 

Or else the Deil's be in it. 



LINES, 

WRITTEN AND PRESENTED TO MRS. KEMBLE, ON 
SEEING HER IN THE CHARACTER OF YARICO. 

Dumfries Theatre, 1794. 
Kemble, thou curest my unbelief 

Of Moses and his rod ; 
At Yarico's sweet notes of grief, 

The rock with tears had flow'd. 



LINES 

WRITTEN EXTEMPORE IN A LADY'S POCKET- 
BOOK. 

Grant me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may live 
To see the miscreants feel the pains they give; 
Deal Freedom's sacred treasures free as air. 
Till slave and despot be but things which were. 



LINES, 

WRITTEN ON WINDOWS OF THE GLOBE 
TAVERN, DUMFRIES. 

The graybeard. Old Wisdom, may boast of 
his treasures, 
Give me with gay Folly to live ; 
I grant him his calm-blooded, time-settled 
pleasures, 
But Folly has raptures to give. 

I murder hate by field or flood, 
Tho' glory's name may screen us ; 

In wars at hame I'll spend my blood, 
Life-giving war of Venus. 

The deities that I adore. 

Are social Peace and Plenty, 
I'm better pleased to make one more, 

Than be the death of twenty. 

My bottle is my holy pool. 
That heals the wounds o' care an' dool. 
And pleasure is a wanten trout. 
An' ye drink it, ye '11 find him out. 

In politics if thou would'st mix, 

And mean thy fortunes be ; 
Bear this in mind, be deaf and blind, 

Let great folks hear and see. 



106 



BURNS S POEMS. 



LINES, 

WRITTEV UNDER THE PICTURE OF THE CELE- 
BRATED MISS BURNS. 

Cease, ye prudes, your envious railing, 
Lovely Burns has charms — confess : 

True it is, she had one failing. 
Had a woman ever less ? 



^Q^m^^ 



THE LASS O' BALLOCHMYLE. 

'TwAS even — the dewy fields were green, 

On every blade the pearls hang ; 
The Zephyr wanton'd round the bean, 

And bore its fragrant sweets alang : 
In every glen the mavis sang. 

All nature listening seem'd the while, 
Except where green-wood echoes rang, 

Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

With careless step I onward stray'd, 

My heart rejoic'd in nature's joy, 
When musing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy ; 
Her look was like the morning's eye, 

Her air like nature's vernal smile, 
Perfection whisper'd passing by. 

Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle ! 

Fair is the morn in flowery May, 

And sweet is night in Autumn mild : 
When roving thro' the garden gay, 

Or wandering in a lonely wild : 
But woman, nature's darling child ! 

There all her charms she does compile ; 
E'en there her other works are foil'd 

By the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. 

O, had she been a country maid, 

And I the happy country swain, 
Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed 

That ever rose in Scotland's plain ! 
Thro' weary winter's wind and rain. 

With joy, with rapture, I would toil ', 
And nightly to my bosom strain 

The bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. 

Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep, 

Where fame and honours lofty shine ; 
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, 

Or downward seek the Indian mine ; 
Give me the cot below the pine, 

To tend the flocks or till the soil. 
And every day have joys divine, 

With the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. 



NAEBODY. 

I hae a wife o' my ain, 
I'll partake wi' naebody ; 

I'll tak cuckold frae nane, 
I'll gie cuckold to haebody. 

I hae a penny to spend. 
There — thanks to naebody ; 



I hae naething to lend, 
I'll borrow frae naebody. 

I am naebody 's lord, 

I'll be a slave to naebody ; 
I hae a guid braid sword, 

I'll tak dunts frae naebody. 

I'll be merry and free, 
I'll be sad for naebody ; 

If naebody care for me, 
I'll care for naebody. 



SONG OF DEATH 

Scene — a Field of Battle; Time of the Day—^ 
Evening ; the Wounded and Dying of the 
victorious Army are supposed to join in the 
following Song. 

A GAELIC AIR. 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, 
and ye skies, 
Now gay with the bright setting sun ; 
Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear ten- 
der ties, 
Our race of existence is run ! 

Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy 
foe. 
Go, frighten the coward and slave ; 
Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but 
know, 
No terrors hast thou to the brave ! 

Thou strik'st the dull peasant — he sinks in 
the dark, 
Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name : 
Thou strik'st the young hero — a glorious 
mark ! 
He falls in the blaze of his fame ! 

In the field of proud honour — our swords in 
our hands, 
Our King and our country to save — 
While victory shines on life's last ebbing 
sands, 
O ! who would not rest with the brave ! 



MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING. 

She is a winsome wee thing. 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

I never saw a fairer, 

I never lo'ed a dearer. 

And niest my heart I'll wear her, 

For fear my jewel tine. 

She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing. 
She is a bonnie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

The warld's wrack we share o't. 
The warstlc and the care o't j 
Wi' her I'll blithely bear it, 
And think my lot divine. 



BURNS 9 POEMS. 



107 



AULD ROB MORRIS. 

There's auld Rob Morris that wens in yon 

glen, 
He's the king o' guid fellows and wale of 

auld men ; 
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen 

and kine, 
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. 

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in 

May; 
She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new 

hay; 
As blithe and as artless as the lamb on the 

lea, 
And dear to my heart as the light to my ee. 

But oh ! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird 
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house 

and yard : 
A wooer like me mauna hope to come sped, 
The wounds I must hide that will soon be 

my dead. 

The day comes to rae, but delight brings me 

nane ; 
The night comes to me, but my rest it is 

gane : 
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, 
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my 

breast. 

O, had she but been of lower degree, 

I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon 

rae ! 
O, how past describing had then been my 

bliss, 
As now my distraction no words can express. 



DUNCAN GRAY. 

Duncan Gray came here to woo, 
Ha, ha, the wooing o t, 
On blithe yule night when we were fou, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
Maggie coost her head fu' high, 
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, 
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd ; 

Ha, ha, «^c. 
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, 

Ha, ha, ^c. 
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, 
Grat his een baith bleer't and blin', 
Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn ; 

Ha, ha, «^c. 

Time and chance are but a tide, 

Ha, ha, <^c. 
Slighted love is sair to bide, 

Ha, ha, <^c. 
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, 
For a haughty hizzie die ? 
She may gae to — France for me ! 

Ha, ha, ^c. 



How it comes let doctors tell. 

Ha, ha, ^c. 
Meg grew sick — as he grew heal, 

Ha, ha, <^c. 
Something in her bosom wrings, 
For relief a sigh she brings; 
And O, her een, they spak sic things ! 

Ha, ha, ^c. 

Duncan was a lad o' grace. 

Ha, ha, ^c. 
Maggie's was a piteous case. 

Ha, ha, ^c. 
Duncan couldna be her death, 
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; 
Now they're crouse and canty baith ; 

Ha, ha, the loooing o'i. 



O POORTITH. 
Tune — / had a Horse. 

O poortith cauld, and restless love, j 

Ye wreck my peace between ye ; 
Yet poorlith a' 1 could forgive, 

An' 't werena for my Jeanie. 
O why should fate sic pleasure have, 

Life's dearest bands untwining ? 
Or why sac sweet a flower as love 

Depend on Fortune's shining ? 

This warld's wealth when I think on, 

Its pride, and a' the lave o't ; 
Fie, fio on silly cotvard man, 

That he should be the slave o't. 
O why, &c. 

Her een sae bonnie blue betray 

How she repays my passion ; 
But prudence is her o'erword aye, 

She talks of rank and fashion. 
O why, &c. 

O wha can prudence think upon, 

And sic a lassie by him ? 
O wha can prudence think upon, 

And sae in love as I am ? 
O why, &c. 

How blest the humble cotter's fate ! 

He woos his simple dearie ; 
The sillie bogles, wealth and state, 

Can never make them eerie. 
why should fate sic pleasure have, 

Life's dearest bands untwining ? 
Or why sae sweet a flower as love 

Depend on Fortune's shining ? 

GALLA WATER. 

There's braw braw lads on Yarrow braes. 
That wander thro' the blooming heather; 

But Yarrow braes nor Ettric shaws, 
Can match the lads o' Galla water. 

But there is ane, a secret ane, 
Aboon them a' I lo'e him better ; 



108 



BURNS S POEMS. 



And I'll he hie, and ho'll be mine, 
The bonnie lad o' Galla water. 

Altho' his daddie was nae laird, 
And tho' I hae sae meikle tocher ; 

Yet rich in kindest, truest love, 
We'll tent our flocks by Galla water. 

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, 
Thatcoft contentment, peace, or pleasure; 

The bands and bliss o' mutual love, 
O that's the chiefest warld's treasure ! 



LORD GREGORY. 

O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour, 

And loud the tempest's roar ; 
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tow'r, 

Lord Gregory ope thy door. 

An exile frae her father's ha', 

And a' for loving thee ; 
At least some pity on me shaw, 

1? Love it mayna be. 

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove, 

By bonnie Irwine side, 
Where first I own'd that virgin-love, 

I lang, lang had denied ? 

How aften didst thou pledge and vow, 

Thou wad for aye be mine ! 
And my fond heart, itsel sae true, 

It ne'er mistrusted thine. 

Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, 

And flinty is thy breast ; 
Thou dart of heaven that flashest by, 

O wilt thou give me rest ! 

Ye mustering thunders from above, 

Your willing victim see ! 
But spare, and pardon my fause love, 

His wrangs to heaven and me ! 

WANDERING WILLIE. 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Here awa, there awa, hand awa hame ; 

Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie. 
Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the 
same. 

Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our 
parting, 
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my 
ee ; 
Welcome now simmer, and welcome my 
Willie, 
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your 
slumbers ; 
How your dread howling a lover alarms ! 
Wauken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows, 
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my 
arras. 



But oh, if he's faithless, and mindna his 
Nannie, 
Flow still between us thou wide-roaring 
main ; 
May I never see it, may I never trow it. 
But, dying, believe that my Willie's my 



OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH ! 

WITH ALTERATIONS. 

Oh, open the door, some pity to shew, 

Oh, open the door to me. Oh ! 
Tho' thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true, 

Oh, open the door to me, Oh ! 

Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek, 
But cauld thy love for me. Oh ! 

The frost that freezes the life at my heart, 
Is nought to my pains frae thee. Oh ! 

The wan moon is setting behind the white 
wave, 

And time is setting with me. Oh ! 
False friends, false love, farewell ! for mair 

I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee. Oh ! 

She has open'd the door, she has open'd it 
wide ; 
She sees his pale corse on the plain. Oh ! 
My true love, she cried, and sank down by 
his side. 
Never to rise again. Oh ! 

JESSIE. 
Tune — Bonnie Dundee. 
True hearted was he, the sad swain o' the 
Yarrow, 
And fair are the maids on the banks o' the 
Ayr, 
But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding 
river, 
Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair. 
To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over ; 
To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain ; 
Grace, beauty, and elegance, fetter her lover. 
And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. 

O, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning, 

And sweet is the lily at evening close ; 
But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jes- 
sie, 

Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. 
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring ; 

Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law : 
And still to her charms she alone is a stranger ! 

Her modest demeanour's the jewel of a'. 

MEG O' THE MILL. 

Air — bonnie Lass will you lie in a 
Barrack ? 

O ken yo what Meg o' the Mill has gotten. 
An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ^ 



BURNS S POEMS. 



109 



She has gotten a coof wi' a claute o' siller, ] 
And broken the heart o' the barley Miller. 

The Miller was strappin, the Miller was 

ruddy ; 
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady ', 
The laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl ; 
She's left the guid fellow and ta'en the churl. 

The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and 

loving ; 
The Laird did address her wi' matter mair 

moving, 
A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chained 

bridle, 
A whip by her side, and a bonnie side-saddle. 

O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing ; 
And wae on the love that is fixed on a maiden ! 
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle, 
But, gie me ray love, and a fig for the war! ! 

LOGAN BRAES. 

Tune — Logan Water. 

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide 
That day I was my Willie's bride ; 
And years sinsyne hae o'er us run, 
Like Logan to the simmer sun. 
But now thy flow'ry banks appear 
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear. 
While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far /rae me and Logan braes. 

Again the merry month o' May 

Has made our hills and valleys gay ; 

The birds rejoice in leafy bowers, 

The bees hum round the breathing flowers ; 

Blithe morning lifts his rosy eye. 

And evening's tears are tears of joy : 

My soul, delightless, a' surveys. 

While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 

Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, 
Amang her nestlings, sits the thrush ; 
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil, 
Or wi' his song her cares beguile : 
But I wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer. 
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days. 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 

O wae upon you, men o' state. 
That brethren rouse to deadly hate ! 
As ye mak mony a fond heart mourn, 
Sae may it on your heads return ! 
How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
The widow s tears, the orphan's cry .'' 
But soon may peace bring happy days. 
And Willie, name to Logan braes ! 

— «o^— 

THERE WAS A LASS. 

Tune — Bonnie Jean. 

There was a lass, and she was fair, 
At kirk and market to be seen, 



When a' the fairest maids were met, 
The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. 

And aye she wrought her mammie's wark. 

And aye she sang sae merrily : 
The blithest bird upon the bush 

Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. 

But hawks will rob the tender joys 
That bless the little lintwhite's nest; 

And frost will bUght the fairest flowers, 
And love will break the soundest rest. 

Young Robie was the brawest lad, 
The flower and pride of a' the glen ; 

And he had owsen, sheep, and kye, 
And wanton naigies nine or ten. 

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste. 
He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down ; 

And lang ere witless Jeanie wist. 

Her heart was tint, her peace was stown. 

As in the bosom o' the stream 
The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en ; 

So trembling, pure, was tender love. 
Within the breast o' bonnie Jean. 

And now she works her mammie's wark. 
And aye she sighs wi' care ahd pain ; 

Yet wistna what her ail might be. 
Or what wad mak her weel again. 

But didna Jeanie 's heart loup light, 

And didna joy blink in her ee. 
As Robie tauld a tale o'love, 

Ae e'enin on the lily lea .•' 

The sun was sinking in the west. 
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ; 

His cheek to her's he fondly prest, 
And whisper'd thus his tale o'love : 

O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear ; 

O canst thou think to fancy me .'' 
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, 

And learn to tent the farms wi' me .'' 

At barn or byre thou shaltna drudge, 
Or naething else to trouble thee ; 

But stray amang the heather-bells, 
And tent the waving corn wi' me. 

Now what could artless Jeanie do .'' 
She had nae will to say him na : 

At length she blush'd a sweet consent. 
And love was aye between them twa. 

PHILLIS THE FAIR. 

Tune — Robin Mair. 
While larks with little wing 

Fann'd the pure air. 
Tasting the breathing spring, 

Forth I did fare : 
Gay the sun's golden eye 
Peep'd e'er the mountains high ; 
Such thy morn ! did I cry, 

Phillis the fair. 



110 



BURNS S POEMS. 



In each bird's careless song 

Glad did I share ; 
While yon wild flowers among, 

Chance led me there : 
Sweet to the opening day, 
Rosebuds bent the dewy spray ; 
Such thy bloom ! did I say, 

Phillis the fair. 

Down in a shady walk, 

Doves cooing were, 
I mark'd the cruel hawk 

Caught in a anare : 
So kind may Fortune be. 
Such make his destiny, 
He who would injure thee, 

Phillis the fair. 



HAD I A CAVE. 

To the same Tune. 

Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore. 
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing 
roar; 
There would I weep my woes, 
There seek my lost repose. 
Till grief my eyes should close, 
Ne'er to wake more. 

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare 
AH thy fond plighted vows — fleeting as air .'' 

To thy new lover hie, 

Laugh o'er thy perjury, 

Then in thy bosom try, 
What peace is there ! 

BY ALLAN STREAM. 
Tune — Allan Water. 

By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove. 

While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi ; 
The winds were whispering thro' the grove. 

The yellow corn was waving ready : 
I listen'd to a lover's sang. 

And thought on youthfu' pleasures mony ; 
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang — 

O, dearly do I love thee, Annie ! 

O, happy be the woodbine bower, 

Nae nightly bogle mak it eerie ; 
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour. 

The place and time I met my dearie ! 
Her head upon my throbbing breast. 

She, sinking, said, " I'm thine for ever !" 
While mony a kiss the seal imprest. 

The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever. 

The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae, 

The simmer joys the flocks to follow j 
How cheery thro' her shortening day 

Is autumn, in her weeds o' yellow ! 
But can they melt the glowing heart. 

Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure. 
Or thro' each nerve the rapture dart. 

Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure ? 



WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU, 
MY LAD. 

O whistle, and 111 come to you, my lad ; 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad : 
Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad. 

But warily tent, when ye come to court me, 
And comena unless the back-yett be a-jee j 
Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see. 
And come as ye werena comin' to me. 
And come, i&c. 

O whistle, &c. 

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, 
Gang by me as the' that ye car'd na a flie. 
But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black ee, 
Yet look as ye werena lookin' at me. 
Yet look, &c. 

O whistle, &c. 

Aye vow and protest that ye carena for me. 
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; 
But courtna anither, tho' jokin ye be. 
For fear that she wyle your fancy Irae me. 
For fear, «fec. 

O whistle, &c. 

DELUDED SWAIN. 
Tune — The Collier's Dochter. 

Deluded swain, the pleasure 
The fickle Fair can give thee, 

Is but a fairy treasure. 

Thy hopes will soon deceive. 

The billows of the ocean. 
The breezes idly roaming. 

The clouds' uncertain motion. 
They are but types of woman. 

O ! art thou not ashamed 

To doat upon a feature ? 
If man thou wouldst be named, 

Despise the silly creature. 

Go, find an honest fellow ; 

Good claret set before thee : 
Hold on till thou art mellow. 

And then to bed in glory. 



THINE AM I. 
Tune — The Quaker's Wife. 

Thine am I, my faithful fair, 
Thine, my lovely Nancy ; 

Ev'ry pulse along my veins, 
Ev'ry roving fancy. 

To thy bosom lay my heart. 
There to throb and languish : 

Tho' despair had wrung its core. 
That would heal its anguish. 

Take away these rosy lips. 
Rich with balmy treasure : 

Turn away thine eyes of love. 
Lest I die with pleasure. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



Ill 



What is life when wanting love ? 

Night without a morning : 
Love's the cloudless summer sun, 

Nature gay adorning. 

HUSBAND, HUSBAND, CEASE YOUR 

STIRFE. 

Tune — Jo Janet. 

Husband, husband, cease your strife, 

Nor longer idly rave, sir ; 
Tho' 1 am your wedded wife. 

Yet I am not your slave, sir. 

" One of two must still obey, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Is it man or woman, say, 

My spouse, Nancy ?" 

If 'tis still the lordly word. 

Service and obedience ; 
I'll desert my sov'reign lord. 

And so good-bye allegiance ! 

" Sad will I be, so bereft, 

Nancy, Nancy ! 
Yet I'll try to make a shift, 

My spouse, Nancy." 

My poor heart then break it must, 

My last hour I'm near it : 
When you lay me in the dust. 

Think, think how you will bear it. 

" I will hope and trust in Heaven, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Strength to bear it will oe given, 

My spouse, Nancy." 

Well, sir, from the silent dead 

Still I'll try to daunt you ; 
Ever round your midnight bed 

Horrid sprites shall haunt you. 

" I'll wed another, like my dear 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Then all hell will fly for fear, 

My spouse, Nancy." 

MY AIN KIND DEARIE O. 

When o'er the hill the eastern star 

Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo ; 
And owscn frae the furrow'd field 

Return sae dowf and wearie O ; 
Down by the burn, where scented birks 

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, 
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig. 

My ain kind dearie O. 

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, 

I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O, 
If thro' that glen I gaed to thee, 

My ain kind dearie O. 
Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild, 

And I were ne'er sae wearie O, 
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie O. 



The hunter lo'es the morning sun. 

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo 
At noon the fisher seeks the glen. 

Along the burn to steer, my jo ; 
Gie me the hour o' gloamin gray, 

It maks my heart sae cheery O, 
To meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie O. 



WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE.? 

Tune — The Sutor's Dochter. 

Wilt thou be my dearie ? 

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, 

Wilt thou let me cheer thee ? 

By the treasure of my soul, 

That's the love I bear thee ! 

I swear and vow that only thou 

Shall ever be my dearie ; 

Only thou, I swear and vow, 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Lassie, say thou lo'es me ; 
Or if thou wiltna be my ain, 
Sayna thou'lt refuse me : 
If it winna, canna be. 
Thou for thine may choose me ; 
Let me, lassie, quickly die. 
Trusting that thou lo'es me ; 
Lassie, let me quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 



BANKS OF CREE. 
Tune — The floioers of Edinburgh. 

Here is the glen, and here the bower. 
All underneath the birchen shade ; 

The village-bell has toll'd the hour, 
O what can stay my lovely maid ? 

'Tis not Maria's whispering call ; 

'Tis but the balmy-breathing gale, 
Mixt with some warbler's dying fall. 

The dewy star of eve to hail. 

It is Maria's voice I hear ! 

So calls the woodlark in the grove 
His little faithful mate to cheer. 

At once 'tis music — and 'tis love. 

And art thou come ? and art thou true .'' 
O welcome dear to love and me ! 

And let us all our vows renew. 
Along the flowery banks of Cree. 



ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY. 

Tune — O'er the HiUs, and far awa. 

How can my poor heart be glad. 
When absent from my sailor lad .'' 
How can I the thought forego. 
He's on the seas to meet the foe .'' 
Let me wander, let me rove. 
Still my heart is with my love j 



112 



BURNS S POEMS. 



Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 
Are with him that's far away. 

CHORUS. 

On the seas and far away, 
On stormy seas and far away ; 
Mightly dreams and thoughts by day 
Are aye with him that's far away. 

When in summer's noon I faint, 
As weary flocks around me pant, 
Haply in this scorching sun 
My sailor's thund'ring at his gun j 
Bullets, spare my only joy ! 
Bullets, spare my darling boy ! 
Fate, do with me what you may, 
Spare but him that's far away ! 
On the seaSf ^c. 

At the starless midnight hour, 
When winter rules with boundless power; 
As the storms the forest tear, 
And thunders rend the howling air, 
Listening to the doubling roar. 
Surging on the rocky shore, 
All 1 can — I weep and pray. 
For his weal that's far away. 
On the seas, <^c. 

Feace, thy olive wand extend. 
And bid wild war his ravage end, 
Man with brother man to meet, 
And as a brother kindly greet : 
Then may heav'n with prosp'rous gales 
Fill my sailor's welcome sails, 
To my arms their charge convey. 
My dear lad that's far away. 
On the seas, ^c. 

HARKl THE MAVIS. 
Tune — Ca' the Yowes to the Knowes. 

CHORUS. 

Cft' the yowes to the knowes, 
Co! them where the heather grows, 
Ca^ them where the burnie rows, 
My bonnie dearie. 

Hark ! the mavis' evening sang 
Sounding Clouden's woods amang ; 
Then a faulding let us gang, 
My bonnie dearie. 
Ca' the, ^c. 

We'll gae down by Clouden side, 
Thro' the hazels spreading wide, 
O'er the waves that sweetly glide 
To the moon sae clearly. 
Ca' the, «^c. 

Yonder Clouden's silent towers, 
Where at moonshine midnight hours, 
O'er the dewy-bending flowers, 
Fairies dance sae cheery. 
Ca the, ^c. 

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ; 
Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear. 



Nocht of ill may come thee near, 
My bonnie dearie. 
Ca' the, 4^c, 

Fair and lovely as thou art. 
Thou hast stown my very heart ; 
I can die — but canna part, 
My bonnie dearie. 
Ca' the, ^c. 



SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME BEST 
OF A'. 

Tune — Onagh's Water-faU. 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets, 

Her eyebrows of a darker hue, 
Bewitchingly o'er-arching 

Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue. 
Her smiling, sae wyling. 

Wad make a wretch forget his wo ; 
What pleasure, what treasure. 

Unto these rosy lips to grow : 
Such was my Chloris' bonnie face, 

When first her bonnie face I saw, 
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a'. 

Like harmony her motion ; 

Her pretty ancle is a spy 
Betraying fair proportion, 

Wad make a saint forget the sky. 
Sae warming, sae charming. 

Her faultless form and gracefu' air ; 
Ilk feature — auld Nature 

Declar'd that she could do nae mair ; 
Her's are the willing chains o' love, 

By conquering beauty's sovereign law j 
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm. 

She says she lo'es me best of a'. 

Let others love the city, 

And gaudy shew at sunny noon ; 
Gie me the lonely valley. 

The dewy eve, and rising moon 
Fair beaming, and streaming. 

Her silver light the boughs amang ; 
While falling, recalling, 

The amorus thrush concludes his sang : 
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove 

By wimpling burn and leafy shaw, 
And hear my vows o' truth and love, 

And say thou lo'es me best of a' .-* 



HOW LANG AND DREARY. 
Tune — Cauld Kail in Aberdeen. 

How lang and dreary is the night. 
When 1 am frae my dearie ; 

I restless lie frae e'en to morn, 
Tho' I were ne'er sae weary. 

CHORUS. 

For oh, her lanely nights are lang ; 

And oh, her dreams are eerie ; 
And oh, her widow' d heart is sair. 

That's absent from her dearie. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



113 



When I think on the lightsome days 
I spent wi' thee, my dearie ; 

And now what seas between us roar, 
How can I be but eerie ? 
For ohj SfC. 

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours j 
The joyless day how dreary ! 

It wasna sae ye glinted by, 
When I was wi' my dearie. 
For oh, <^c. 



THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE 
TO HIS MISTRESS. 

Tune — Dcil take the Wars. 

Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest crea- 
ture .'' 

Rosy morn now lifts his eye, 
Numbering ilka bud which Nature 

Waters wi' the tears o' joy. 

Now thro' the leafy woods, 

And by the reeking floods, 
Wild Nature's tenants freely, gladly stray ; 

The lintwhite in his bower 

Chants o'er the breathing flower ; 

The lav'rock to the sky 

Ascends wi' sangs o' joy. 
While the sun and thou arise to bless the day. 

Phoebus, gilding the brow o' morning. 

Banishes ilk darksome shade. 
Nature gladdening and adorning j 

Such to me my lovely maid. 

When absent frae my fair. 

The murky shades o' care. 
With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky : 

But when in beauty's light 

She meets my ravish'd sight, 

When through my very heart 

Her beaming glories dart ; 
'Tis then I wake to life, to light, and joy. 



BUT LATELY SEEN. 
Tune — The Death of the Linnet. 

But lately seen in gladsome green 

The woods rejoice the day. 
Thro' gentle showers the laughing flowers 

In double pride were gay : 
But now our joys are fled 

On winter blasts awa ! 
Yet maiden May, in rich array, 

Again shall bring them a'. 

But my white pow, nae kindly thowe 

Shall melt the snaws of age ; 
My trunk of eild, but buss or bield. 

Sinks in time's wintry rage. 
Oh, age has weary days, 

And nights o' sleepless pain I 
Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime, 

Why com'st thou not again I 

]5 



LASSIE WP THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS. 
Tune — Rothiemurchus' s Rant. 

CHORUS. 

Lassie wi' the lint-white lockSj 
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie. 

Wilt thouwi^ me tent the flocks, 
Wilt thou he my dearie 09 

Now nature deeds the flowery lea, 
And a' is young and sweet like thee ; 
O wilt thou share its joys wi' me, 
And say thou'lt be my dearie O I 
Lassie ioi\ <^c. 

And when the welcome simmer-shower 
Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower, 
We'll to the breathing woodbine bower 
At sultry noon, my dearie O. 
Lassie wi\ S^c. 

When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, 
The weary shearer's hameward way, 
Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, 
And talk o' love, my dearie O. 
Lassie wi\ <^c. 

And when the howling wintry blast 
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest j 
Enclasped to my faithfu' breast, 
I'll comfort thee, my dearie O. 

Lassie wi' the lint'White locks, 
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, 

Wilt thou wV me tent the flocks, 
Wilt thou he my dearie ? 



FAREWELL, THOU STREAM. 

Tone — Kancxfs to the Greenwood gane. 

Farewell, thou stream that winding flows 
Around Eliza's dwelling ! 

mem'ry ! spare the cruel throes 
Within my bosom swelling : 

Condemn'd to drag a hopeless chain. 

And yet in secret languish. 
To feel a fire in ev'ry vein. 

Nor dare disclose my anguish. 

Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, 
I fain my griefs would cover : 

The bursting sigh, th' unweeting groan, 
Betray the hapless lover. 

1 know thou doom'st me to despair. 

Nor wilt nor canst relieve mej 
But oh, Eliza, hear one prayer, 
For pity's sake forgive me ! 

The music of thy voice I heard. 

Nor wist while it enslav'd me ; 
I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd, 

Till fears no more had sav'd me : 
Th' unwary sailor thus aghast, 

The wheeling torrent viewing, 
'Mid circling horrors sinks at last 

In overwhelming ruin. 



114 



BURNS S POEMS. 



CONTENTED WI' LITTLE. 

Tune — Lumps o' Pudding. 

Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair, 
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care, 
I gie them a skelp as they're creeping alang, 
Wi' a cog o' gurd swats, and an auld Scottish 
sang. 

I whyles cJaw the elbow o' troublesome 

thought ; 
But man is a sodger, and life is a faught : 
My mirth and guid humour are coin in my 

pouch, 
And my Freedom's my lairdship nae monarch 

dare touch. 

A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa', 
A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a' : 
When at the blithe end o' our journey at last, 
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has 
past? 

Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on 

her way, 
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade 

gae: 
Come ease, or come travail ; come pleasure, 

or pain, 
My warst word is — ^" Welcome, and welcome 



agam 



►©#*•«•♦•• 



MY NANNIE'S AWA. 
Tune — There'll never be Peace. 

Now in her green mantle blithe nature ar- 
rays. 

And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the 
braes, 

While birds warble welcome in ilka green 
shaw ; 

But to me it's delightless — my Nannie's awa. 

The saaw-drap and primrose our woodlands 

adorn. 
And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn ; 
They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they 

blaw. 
They mind me o' Nannie — my Nannie's awa. 

Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of 

the lawn, 
The shepherd to warn o' the gray-breaking 

dawn. 
And thou, mellofW mavis, that hails the 

night-fa', 
Give over for pity — my Nannie's awa. 

Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and 

And sooth me wi' tidings o' nature's decay; 
The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving 

snaw, 
Alane can delight me — now Nannie's awa. 



SWEET FA'S THE EVE. 

T u NE — Craigic-bufn-wood. 

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burnr 
And blithe awakes the morrow, 

But a' the pride o' spring's return 
Can yield me nocht but sorrow. 

I see the flowers and spreading trees^ 

I hear the wild birds singing ; 
But what a weary wight can please, 

And care his bosom wringing ? 

Fain, fain would I my griefs impart^ 

Yet darena for your anger ; 
But secret love will break my heart, 

If I conceal itlanger. 

If thou refuse to pity me. 

If thou slialt love anither, 
When yon green leaves fa' frae the tree, 

Around my grave they'll wither. 

••^©®®**** 

O LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEPING 
YET? 

Tune — Let me in this ae Night f 

Lassie, art thou sleeping yet ? 
Or art thou wakin, I would wit? 

For love has bound me, hand and foot, 
And I would fain be in, jo. 

CHORUS. 

O let me in this ae night, 

This ae, ae, ae night ; 
For pity's sake this ac night, 

O rise and let me in, jo. 

Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet, 
Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet ; 
Tak pity on my weary feet. 
And shield me frae tlie rain, jo. 
let me in, ^c. 

The bitter blast that round me blaws. 
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's ; 
The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause 
Of a' my grief and pain, jo. 

let me in, 4"^. 

HER ANSWER. 

To the sarne Tune. 

O tellna me o' wind and rain, 
Upbridna me wi' cauld disdain ! 
Gae back the gait ye cam again, 

1 winna let you in, jo. 

CHORUS. 

J imil^you now this ae night, 

'.'VjXs ae, ae, ae night, 
And ance for a' this ac ni,gkt, 

1 winna let you in, jo. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



115 



The snellest blast, at mirkest hours, 
That round the pathless wand'rer po«rs, 
Is nocht to what poor she endures. 
That's trusted faithless man, jo. 
/ tell you now, ^c. 

The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead, 
Now trodden like the vilest weed j 
Let simple maid the lesson read, 
The weird may be her ain, jo. 
I tell you now, <^c. 

The bird that charm'd his summer-day. 
Is now the cruel fowler's prey ; 
Let witless, trusting, woman say 
How aft her fate's the same, jo. 
/ tell you now, 8fe. 



ADDRESS TO THE WOOD-LARK. 

Tune — Where'll bonnie Jinn lie. 

O stay, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay, 
Nor quit for me the trembling spray, 
A hapless lover courts thy lay, 
Thy soothing fond complaining. 

Again, again that tender part, 
That I may catch thy melting art ; 
For surely that wad touch her heart, 
Wha kills me wi' disdaining. 

Say, was thy little mate unkind. 
And heard thee as the careless wind ? 
Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd, 
Sic notes o' wae could wauken. 

Thou tells o' never-ending care ; 
O' speechless grief, and dark despair; 
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mairl 
Or my poor heart is broken ! 



<^ROVES O' SWEET MYRTLE. 

Tune — Humours of Glen. 

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign 
lands reckon. 
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the 
perfume ; 
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green 
breckan, 
Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yel- 
low broom. 

Far dearer to me are yon humble broom 
bowers. 
Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly 
unseen: 
For there, lightly tripping amang the wild 
flowers, 
A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. 

Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny 
valleys. 
And cauld, Caledonia's blast on the wave ; 



Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the 
proud palace, 
What are they ? The haunt of the tyrant 
and slave ! 

The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling 
fountains. 
The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; 
He wanders as free as the winds of his moun- 
tains. 
Save love's willing fetters, the chain o'hia 
Jeaa. 



'TWASNA HER BONNIE BLUE EE. 

Tune — Laddie, lie near me. 

'Twasna her bonnie blue ee was my ruin ; 
Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing ; 
'Twas the dear smile when naebody did 

mind us, 
'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stov/n glance 

o' kindness. 

Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, 
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me ; 
But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever, 
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever. 

Mary, I'm thine wi' a paspion sincerest. 
And thou hast plighted me love o' tJie dearest ! 
And thou'rt the angel that never can alter, 
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter. 



MARK YONDER POMP. 
Tune — Deil tak' the Wars. 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion, 

Round the wealthy, titled bride : 
Bat when compar'd with real passion, 
Poor is all that princely pride. 
What are the showy treasures .'' 
What are the noisy pleasures ? 

The gay gaudy glare of vanity and art : 
The polish'd jewels blaze 
May draw the wond'ring gaze, 
And courtly grandeur bright 
The fancy may delight, 

But never, never can come near the heart. 

But did you see my dearest Chloris, 

In simplicity's array ; 
Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is, 
Shrinking from the gaze of day. 
O then, the heart alarming, 
And all resistless charming, 
In Love's dehghtful fetters she chains the 
willing soul ! 
Ambition would disown 
The world's imperial crown ; 
Even Avarice would deny 
His worshipp'd deity, 
And feel thro' every vein Love's raptures roll. 



116 



BURNS S POEMS. 



I SEE A FORM, I SEE A FACE. 
Tune — This is no my ain House. 

O this is no my ain lassie 

Fair tho' the lassie be ; 
O iceel ken I my ain lassie^ 

Kind love is in her ec. 

I see a form, I see a face. 
Ye weel may wi' the fairest place : 
It wants, to me, the witching grace, 
The kind love that's in her ce. 
O this is no, fyc. 

She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall, 
And long has had my heart in thrall ; 
And aye it charms ray very saul, 
The kind love that's in her ee. 
this is no, ^c. 

A thief sae pa wide is my Jean, 
To steal a blink, by a' unseen ; 
But gleg as light are lover's een, 
When kind love is in the ee. 
O this is no, «^c. 

It may escape the courtly sparks. 
It may escape the learned clerks ; 
But weel the watching lover marks 
The kind love that's in her ee. 
O this is no, «^c. 



O BONNIE WAS YON ROSY BRIER. 

Tune — The loee loee man. 

O bonnie was yon rosy brier. 

That blooms sae fair frae haunt o' man ; 
And bonnie she, and ah, how dear ! 

It shaded frae the e'enin sun. 

Yon rosebuds in the morning dew. 
How pure amang the leaves sae green ; 

But purer was the lover's vow 
They witness'd in their shade yestreen. 

All in its rude and prickly bower. 
That crimson rose, how sweet and fair ! 

But love is far a sweeter flower 
Amid life's thorny path o' care. 

The pathless wild and wimpling burn, 
Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine ; 

And I, the world, nor wish, nor scorn, 
Its joys and griefs alike resign. 



FORLORN, MY LOVE. 
Tune — Let me in this ae night. 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, 

Far, far from thee, I wander here : 

Far, far from thee, the fate severe 

At which I most repine, love. 



CHORUS. 

wert thou, love, hut near me, 
But near, near, near me ; 
How kindly thou wouiVst cheer me, 
.Bud mingle sighs loith mine, love. 

Around me scowls a wintry sky, 
That blasts each bud of hope and joy ; 
And shelter, shade, nor home have I, 
Save in those arms of thine, love. 
loert, S^c. 

Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part. 

To poison fortune's ruthless dart — 

Let me not break thy faithful heart. 

And say that fate is mine, love. 

loert, SfC. 

But dreary tho' the moments fleet, 
O let me think we yet shall meet ! 
That only ray of solace sweet 
Can on thy Chloris shine, love. 
wert, <^c. 



LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER. 

Tune — Tlie Lothian Lassie. 

Last May a braw wooer came down the lang 
glen. 
And sair wi' his love he did deave me : 
I said there 'was nae thing I hated like men, 
The deuce gae wi'm to believe me, believe 

me, 
The deuce gae wi'm to believe me. 

He spak o' the darts in my bonnie black een, 
And vow'd for my love he was dying ; 

I said he might die when he liked for Jean : 
The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying, 
The Lord forgie me for lying ! 

A weel-stock'd mailen, himsel for the laird, 
And marriage aff'-hand were his proffers : 

I never loot on that I kenn'd it, or car'd, 
But thought I might hae waur offers, waur 

offers. 
But thought I might hae waur offers. 

But what wad ye think ? in a fortnight or less, 
The deil tak his taste to gae near her ! 

He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess, 
Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her, 

could bear her. 
Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her. 

But a' the niest week as I fretted wi' care, 
I gaed to the tryst o' Dalgarnock, 

And wha but my fine fickle lover was there, 
I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, 
I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock. 

But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, 
Lest neebors might say I was saucy ; 

My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink, 
And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, 
And vow'd I was his dear lassie. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



117 



I spier'd for my cousin fu, couthie and sweet, 

Gin she had recover'd her hearin', 
And how her new shoon fit her auld shachl't 
feet — 
But, heavens ! how he fell a swcarin', a 

swearin', 
But, heavens' how he fell a swearin'. 

He begged, for Gudesake ! I wad be his wife, 
Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow : 

So e'en to preserve the poor body in life, 
I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to- 
morrow, 
I think I maun wed him to-morrow. 

HEY FOR A. LASS WI' A TOCHER. 

Tune — Balinamona ora. 

Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, 
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your 

arms : 
O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms, 
0,gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms. 

CHORUS. 

Then hey, for a lass wi'' a tocher y then hey, 

for a lass wV a tocher, 
Then hey, for a lass wi' a tocher ; the nice 

yellow guineas for me. 

Your beauty's a flower in the morning that 

blows. 
And withers the faster, the faster it grows. 
But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie green 

knowes, 
Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie white 

yowes. 

Then hey, ^c. 

And e'en when this beauty your bosom has 

blest. 
The brighest o' beauty may cloy, when pos- 

sest; 
But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie 

imprest, 
The langer ye hae them — the mair they're 

carest. 
;: Then hey, <^c. 

^LTHO' THOU MAUN NEVER BE 
MINE. 

Tune — Here's a health to them thaVs awa, 
hiney. 

CHORUS. 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear, 
Here's a health to ane I lo^e dear; 
Thou art as sweet as the smile ichenfond lo- 
vers meet, 
And soft as their parting tear — Jessy ! 

Altho' thou maun never be mine, 

Altho' even hope is denied ; 
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing. 

Than aught in the world beside — Jessy! 
Here's a health, ^e. 



I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day. 
As hopeless I muse on thy charms : 

Blit welcome the dream o' sweet slumber, 
For then I am lockt in thy arms — Jessy ! 
Here's a health, ^c. 

I guess by the dear angel smile, 
I guess by the love-rolling ee ; 
But why urge the tender confession 
'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree— Jessy ! 
Here's a health, <^e. 

FULL WELL THOU KNOW'ST. 
Tune — Rothiemurchus. 

CHORUS. 

Fairest maid on Devon banks, 
Chrystal Devon, winding Devon, 

Wilt thou lay that frown aside, 
And smile as thou were wont to do? 

Full well thou know'st I love thee dear, 
Couldst thou to malice lend an ear .'' 
O, did not love exclaim, " Forbear, 
Nor use a faithful lover so .'"' 
Fairest maid, S^c. 

Then come, thou fairest of the fair, 
Those wonted smiles, O, let me share ; 
And by thy beauteous self I swear, 

No love but thine my heart shall know. 
Fairest maid, <^c. 

. > ^^^^^ .^ - 

THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. 

CHORUS. 

Bonnie lassie, will ye go, will ye go, will 

-ye go, 
Bonnie lassie, will ye go to the Birks of 

Aberfeldy ? 

Now simmer blinks on flowery braes. 
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays, 
Come let us spend the lightsome days 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, ^c. 

While o'er their heads the hazels hing, 
The little birdies blithly sing, 
Or lightly flit on wanton wing 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, «^c. 

The braes ascend like lofty wa's, 
The foaming stream deep roaring fa's, 
O'er-hung wi' fragrant spreading shaws, 
The Birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, <^c. 

The hoary 0115*8 are crown'd wi' flowers, 
White o'er the linns the burnie pours, 
And rising, weets wi' misty showers 
The Birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, ^c. 



118 



BURNS^S 



POEMS. 



Let fortune's gifts at random flee, 
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae mo, 
Supremely blest wi' love and thee, 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, •^•c. 

— Q!©^— 

STAY, MY CHARMER. 

Tune — Jin Gille duhh ciar dhuhh. 

Stay, my charmer, can you leave me ? 

Cruel, cruel to deceive me ! 

Well you know how much you grieve me ; 

Cruel charmer, can you go ? 

Cruel charmer, can you go ? 

By my love so ill requited ; 

By the faith you fondly plighted ; 

By the pangs of lovers slighted; 

Do not, do not leave me so ! 

Do not, do not leave me so ! 



THICKEST NIGHT. 
Tune — Strathallan's Lament. 

Thickest night o'erhang my dwelling! 

Howling tempest's o'er me rave ! 
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, 

Still surround my lonely cave ! 

Crystal streamlets gently flowing, 
Busy haunts of base mankind. 

Western breezes softly blowing, 
Suit not my distracted mind. 

In the cause of right engag'd. 
Wrongs injurious to redress. 

Honour's war we strongly wag'd, 
But the heavens deny'd success. 

Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, 
Not a hope that dare attend ; 

The wide world is all before us — 
But a world without a friend ! 

THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER. 
Tune — Morag. 

Loud blaw the frosty breezes, 

The snaws the mountains cover ; 
Like winter on me seizes. 

Since my young Highland Rover 

Far wanders nations over. 
Where'er he go, where'er he stray, 

May Heaven be his warden : 
Return him safe to fair Strathspey, 

And bonnie Castle-Gordon ! 

The trees now naked groaning, 
Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging, 

The birdies dowie moaning. 
Shall a' be blithly singing, 
And every flower be springing. 



Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day, 
When by his mighty v.'arden 

My youth's return'd to fair Strathspey, 
And bonnie Castle- Gordon. 

RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING. 

Tune — McGregor ofRuard's Lament. 

Raving winds around her blowing. 
Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing, 
By a river hoarsely roaring, 
Isabella stray'd deploring. 
" Farewell, hours that late did measure 
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure ; 
Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow, 
Cheerless night that knows no morrow ! 

" O'er the past too fondly wandering, 
On the hopeless future pondering ; 
Chilly grief my life-blood freezes, 
Fell despair my fancy seizes. 
Life, thou soul of every blessing, 
Load to misery most distressing, 
O how gladly I'd resign thee. 
And to dark oblivion join thee !" 



MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. 

Tune — Druimion duhh. 

Musing on the roaring ocean 
Which divides my love and me ; 

Wearying Heaven in warm devotion. 
For his weal where'er he be. 

Hope and fear's alternate billow 
Yielding late to nature's law ; 

Whisp'ring spirits round my pillow 
Talk of him that's far awa. 

Ye whom sorrow never wounded. 

Ye who never shed a tear. 
Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded. 

Gaudy day to you is dear. 

Gentle night, do thou befriend me ; 

Downy sleep, the curtain draw ; 
Spirits kind, again attend me. 

Talk of him that's far awa ! 



BLITHE WAS SHE. 
Tune — Andrew and his cuttie gun. 

CHORUS. 

Blithe, blithe and merry was she, 
Blithe was she but and ben : 

Blithe by the banks of Ern, 
But blither in Glenturit glen. 

By Ouchtertyre grows the aik, 

On Yarrow banks, the birken shaw ; 

But Phemie was a bonnier lass 
Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. 
Blithe, &c. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



119 



Her looks Were like a flower in May, 
Her smile was like a simmer morn ; 

She tripped by the banks of Em 
As light's a bird upon a thorn. 
Blithe, &c. 

Her bonny face it was as meek 

As ony lamb's upon a lee ; 
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet 

As was the blink o' Phemie's ee. 
Blithe f &c. 

The Highland hills I've wander'd wide, 
And o'er the Lowlands I hae been ; 

But Phemie was the blithest lass 
That ever trod the dewy green. 
Blithe, &c. 



WHERE BRAVING ANGRY WIN- 
TER'S STORMS. 

TuNE"JV*. Gow's Lamentation for Ahercaimy. 

Where, braving angry winter's storms, 

The lofty Ochels rise, 
Far in their shade my Peggy's charms 

First blest my wondering eyes. 
As one who, by some savage stream, 

A lonely gem surveys, 
Astonish'd, doubly marks its beam 

With art's most polish'd blaze. 

Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade, 

And blest the day and hour. 
Where Peggy's charms I first suivey'd, 

When first I felt their pow'r ! 
The tyrant death with grim control 

May seize my fleeting breath ; 
But tearing Peggy from my soul 

Must be a stronger death. 



TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY. 
Tune — Invercauld's Reel. 

CHORUS. 

O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, 

Ye wouldna been sae shy ; 
For laiH o' gear ye lightly me. 

But, trowth, Icarena by. 

Yestreen I met you on the moor, 
Yc spakna, but gaed by like stoure: 
Ye geek at me because I'm poor. 
But fient a hair care I. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

I doubtna, lass, but ye may think, 
Becavise ye hae the name o' clink, 
TJiat ye can please me at a wink, 
When'er ye like to try. 
Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

But sorrow tak him that's sac mean, 
All.ho' his pouch o' coin were clean, 
Wha follows ony saucy quean 
That looks sac proud and high. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 



Altho' a lad were o'er sae smart,^ 
If that he want the yellow dirt, 
Ye'll cast your head anither airt, 
And answer him fu' dry. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

But if he hae the name o' gear, 
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier, 
Tho' hardly he for sense or lear 
Be better than the kye. 
Tibbie, J hae, &c. 

But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice, 
Your daddy's gear maks you sae nice j 
The deil a ane wad spier your price, 
Were ye as poor as I. 
Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

There lives a lass in yonder park, 
I wouldna gie her in a sark. 
For thee wi' a' thy thousand mark j 
Ye needna look sae high. 
Tibbie, I hae, &,c. 

THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM 
BURNS. 

Tune — Seventh of November. 

The day returns, my bosom burns. 

The blissful day we twa did meet, 
Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd. 

Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet. 
Than a' the pride that loads the tide, 

And crosses o'er the sultry line ; 
Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes, 

Heaven gave me more, it made thee mine 

While day and night can bring delight, 

Or nature aught of pleasure give ; 
While joys above my mind can move, 

For thee, and thee alone, I live I 
When that grim foe of life below 

Comes in between to make us part ; 
The iron hand that breaks our band. 

It breaks my bliss — it breaks my heart. 



THE LAZY MIST. 
Irish Air — Coolun. 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, 
Concealing the course of the dark-winding 

rill;- 
How languid the scenes, late so sprightly^ 

appear. 
As autumn to winter resigns the pale year ! 
The forests are leafless, the meadows are 

brown. 
And all the gay foppery of summer is flown : 
Apart let me wander, apart let me muse, 
How quick time is flying, how keen fate pur- 
sues ; 
How long I have liv'd, but how much liv'd 

in vain : 
How little of life's scanty span may remain : 
What aspects, old Time, in his progress, has 

worn ; 
What ties, cruel fate in my bosom has torn. 



120 



BURNS S POEMS. 



How foolish, or worse, till our summit is 

gain'd ! 
And downward, how weaken'd, how dark- 

en'd, how pain'd ! 
This life's not worth having with all it can 

give, 
For something beyond it poor man sure must 

live. 

I LOVE MY JEAN. 
Tune — Miss Admiral Gordori's Strathspey. 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the west, 
For there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lassie I lo'e best ; 
There wild woods grow, and rivers row, 

And mony a hill between ; 
But day and night my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 

I see her in the dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet and fair : 
I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

[ hear her charm the air : 
There's not a bonnie flower that springs 

By fountain, shaw, or green ; 
There's not a bonny bird that sings, 

But minds me o' my Jean. 



A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. 

Tune— TAe Shepherd's Wife. 

A rose-bud by my early walk, 
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, 
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, 
All on a dewy morning. 

Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled. 
In all its crimson glory spread, 
And drooping rich the dewy head. 
It scents the early morning. 

Within the bush, her covert nest 
A little linnet fondly prest. 
The dew sat chilly on her breast 
Sae early in the morning. 

She soon shall see her tender brood. 
The pride, the pleasure, o' the wood, 
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd, 
Awake the early morning. 

So thou, dear bird, young Jenny fair, 
On trembling string or vocal air, 
Shall sweetly pay the tender care 
That tents thy early morning. 

So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay, 
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day, 
And bless the parent's evening ray 
That watch'd thy early morning. 





WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' MAUT. 

O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, 
And Rob and Allan came to see ; 

Three blither hearts that lee-lang night, 
Ye \vadna find in Christendie. 

CHORUS. 

We arena fou, we're not thafou, 
But just a drappie in our ee ; 

The cock may craw, the day may daw. 
And aye we'll taste the barley bree. 

Here are me met, three merry boys, 
Three merry boys I trow are we ; 

And mony a night we've merry been, 
And mony mae we hope to be ! 
We arena fou, &c. 

It is the moon, I ken her horn, 
That's blinkin in the lift sae hie ; 

She shines sae bright to wyle us hame. 
But by my sooth she'll wait a wee ! 
We arena fou, &c. 

Wha first shall rise to gang awa, 
A cuckold, coward loan is he ! 

Wha last beside his chair shall fa' 
He is the king amang us three ) 
We arena fou, &c. 



THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE. 

Tune— TAe Blathrie o't. 

I gae'd a waefu' gate yestreen, 
A gate, I fear. I'll dearly rue ; 

I gat my death frae twa sweet een, 
Twa lovely een o' bonnv blue. 

16 



'Twas not her golden ringlets bright, 
Her lips like roses wet wi' dew, 

Her heaving bosom lily-white; — 
It was her een sae bonnie blue. 

She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wyld, 

She charm'd my soul I wistna how ; 
And aye the stound, the deadly wound, 

Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue. 
But spare to speak, and spare to speed ; 

She'll aiblins listen to my vow ; 
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead 

To her twa een sae bonnie blue. 

— O©© — 
THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE. 
Tune — Miss Forbes^ s Farewell to Banff. 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen, 

The flowers decay'd on Catrine lee, 
Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green, 

But nature sicken'd on the ee. 
Thro' faded groves Maria sang, 

Hersel in beauty's bloom the whyle, 
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang, 

Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, 

Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair ; 
Ye birdies dumb, in with'ring bowers. 

Again ye'il charm the vocal air. 
But here, alas ! for me nae mair 

Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile; 
Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, 

Fareweel, fareweel ! sweet Ballochmyle. 



JOHN ANDERSON MT JO. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 
When we were first acquent. 



122 



BURNS S POEMS. 



Your locks were like the raven. 

Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is beld, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw ; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson my jo. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither ; 
And mony a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither : 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand in hand we'll go, 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson my jo. 



THE BANKS OF NITH. 
Tune — Robie Donna Gorach. 

The Thames flows proudly to the sea, 

Where royal cities stately stand ; 
But sweeter flows the Nith to me, 

Where Cummins ance held high com- 
mand : 
When shall I see that honour 'd land. 

That winding stream I love so dear !, 
Must wayward fortune's adverse hand 

For ever, ever keep me here ? 

How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales, 

Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom. 
How sweetly wind thy sloping dales. 

Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom ! 
Tho' wandering, now, must be my doom, 

Far from thy bonnie banks and braes. 
May there my latest hours consume, 

Amang the friends of early days ! 

O, WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL ! 

Tune — My love is lost to me. 

O, were I on Parnassus' hill ! 
Or had of Helicon my fill; 
That I might catch poetic skill, 

To sing how dear 1 love thee. 
But Nith maun be my muse's well. 
My muse maun be thy bonnie sel ; 
On Corsincon I'll glowr and spell, 

And write how dear Hove thee. 

Then come, sweet muse, inspire my lay ! 
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day, 
I couldna sing, I coudnasay, 

How much, how dear I love thee. 
I sec thee dancing o'er the green. 
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean, 
Thy tempting looks, thy roguish een — 

By heaven and earth I love thee ! 

By night, by day, a-field, at hame. 
The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame ; 
And aye 1 muse and sing thy name, 
I only live to love thee. 



Tho' I were doomed to wander on, 
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun, 
Till my last weary sand was run ; 
Till then — and then I'd love thee. 



TAM GLEN. 

Tune— TAc Mucking o' Geurdic's Byre. 

My heart is a breaking, dear Tittie, 
Some counsel unto me come len', 

To anger them a' is a pity ; 

But what will I do with Tam Glen .'' 

I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fallow, 
In poortith I might mak a fen' ; 

What care I in riches to wallow, 
If I maunna marry Tam Glen ? 

There's Lowrie the laird o' Drumeller, 
'' Guid-day to you, brute !" he comes ben : 

He brags and he blaws o' his siller, 

But when will he dance like Tam Glen .' 

My minnie does constantly deave me. 
And bids me beware o' young men ; 

They flatter, she says, to deceive me ; 
But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen ? 

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, 
He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten ; 

But, if it's ordain 'd I maun take him, 
O wha will I get but Tam Glen .'' 

Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing, 
My heart to my mou gied a sten ; 

For thrice 1 drew ane without failing. 
And thrice it was written, Tam Glen. 

The last Halloween I was waukin 
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken; 

Plis likeness came up the house staukin — 
And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen ! 

Come counsel, dear Tittie, don't tarry ; 

I'll gie you my bonnie black hen, 
Gif ye will advise me to marry 

The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen. 



O MEIKLE. 
Tune — My Tocher's the Jewel. 

O meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty, 

And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin ; 
But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie. 

My tocher's the jewel has charms for him. 
It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree; 

It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee ; 
My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller, 

He cannahae luve to spare for me. 

Your proffor o' luve's an airl-penny, 
My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ; 

But an ye be crafty, I am cunnin, 

Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



123 



Ye'fe like totlie timmer o' yon rotten wood, 
Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree, 

Ye'U slip frae me like a knotless thread, 
And ye '11 crack yourcreditwi'mae nor me. 



GANE IS THE DAY. 

Tune — Guidwife count the lawin. 

Gane is the day, and mirk's the night, 
But we'll ne'er stray for faute o' light, 
For ale and brandy's stars and moon, 
And bluid-red wine's the rising sun. 

CHORUS. 

Then guidwife count the lawin, the lawin, 

the lawin, 
Then guidwife count the laicin, and bring a 

coggie mair. 

There's wealth and ease for gentlemen, 
And semple-folk maun fecht and fen', 
But here we're a' in ae accord, 
For ilka man that's drunk's a lord. 
Then guidwife count, fyc. 

My coggie is a haly pool, 
That heals the wounds o'care and dool ; 
And pleasure is a wanton trout. 
An' ye drink it a' ye'll find him out. 
Then guidwife count, <^c. 



WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO 
Wr AN AULD MAN? 

Tune — What can a lassie do. 

What can a young lassie, what shall a young 
lassie, 
What can a young lassie do wi' an auld 
man? 
Bad luck on the penny that tempted mymin- 
nie. 
To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' Ian ! 
Bad luck on the penny, &c. 

He's always compleenin frae mornin to 
e'enin, 
He hosts and he hirples the weary day 
lang, 
He's doylt and he's dozin, his bluid it is 
frozen, 
O, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man! 

He hums and he hankers, he frets and he 
cankers, 
I never can please him do a' that I can ; 
He's peevish and jealous of a' the young 
fellows : 
O, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man ! 

My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, 
I'll do my endeavour to follow her plaii ; 
I'll cross him, and rack him, until I heart- 
break him, 
And then his auld brass will buy me a 
new pan. 



THE BONNIE WEE THING. 

Tune — The lads of Saltcoats. 

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, 
Lovely wee thing, wast thou mine, 

I wad wear thee in my bosom, 
Lest my jewel I should tine. 

Wistfully I look and languish, 

In that bonnie face o' thine ; 
And ray heart it stounds wi' anguish, 

Lest my wee thing be nae mine. 

Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty, 

In ae constellation shine ; 
To adore thee is my duty, 

Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! 
Bonnie wee, ^c. 

O, FOR ANE AND TWENTY, TAM ! 
Tune — The Moudiewort. 

CHORUS. 

An for ane and ticenty. Tarn! 

An hey, sweet ane and ticenty, Tam! 
ril learn my kin a rattlin sang, 

An I saw ane and twenty, Tam. 

They snool me sair, and baud me down. 
And gar me look like bluntie, Tam ! 

But three short years will soon wheel roun', 
And then comes ane and twenty, Tam. 
An for ane, «^c. 

A gleib o' Ian', a claut o' gear, 
Was left me by my auntie, Tam ; 

At kith or kin I needna spier, 
An I saw ane and twenty, Tam. 
An O for ane, &fc. 

They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, 
Tho' I mysel' hae plenty, "Tam ; 

But hear'st thou, laddie, there's my loof, 
I'm thine at ane and twenty, Tam ! 
An Ofor ane, 8^c. 

BESS AND HER SPINNING WHEEL. 

Tune — Bottom of the Punch Bowl, 

O leeze me on my spinning wheel, 
O leeze me on my rock and reel ; 
Frae tap to tae that deeds my bien. 
And haps me fiel and warm at e'en ! 
I'll set me down and sing and spin, 
While laigh descends the simmer sun. 
Blest wi' content, and milk and meal — 
O leeze me on my spinning wheel. 

On ilka hand the burnies trot, 
And meet below my theekit cot; 
The scented birk and hawthorn white 
Across the pool their arms unite. 
Alike to screen the birdies nest, 
And little fishes caller rest* 



124 



BURNS S POEMS. 



The sun blinks kindly in the biel', 
Where blithe I turn my spinning wheel. 

On lofty aiks the cushats wail, 
And echo cons the doolfu' tale ; 
The lintwhites in the hazel braes, 
Delighted, rival ither's lays : 
The craik amang the claver hay, 
The paitrick whirrin o'er the ley, 
The swallow jinkin round my shiel, 
Amuse me at my spinning wheel. 

Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, 
Aboon distress, below envy, 
O wha wad leave this humble state, 
For a' the pride of a' the great ? 
Amid their flaring, idle toys. 
Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys, 
Can they the peace and pleasure feel, 
Of Bessy at her spinning wheel ? 



COUNTRY LASSIE. 
Tune — John, come kiss me now. 

In simmer when the hay was mawn, 

And corn wav'd green in ilka field. 
While claver blooms white o'er the lea, 

And roses blaw in ilka bield ; 
Blithe Bessie in the milking shiel. 

Says, I'll be wed, come o't what will; 
Out spak a dame in wrinkled eild, 

O' guid advisement comes nae ill. 

It's ye hae wooers mony ane. 

And lassie, ye're but young ye ken ; 
Then wait a wee, and cannie wale 

A routhie butt, a routhie ben : 
There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

Fu' is his barn, fu' is his b^ re ; 
Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen. 

It's plenty beets the luver's fire. 

For Johnie o' the Buskie-glen 

I dinna care a single flie ; 
He lo'es sae weel his craps and kye, 

He has nae luve to spare for me : 
But blithe's the blink o' Robie's ee, 

And weel I wat he lo'es me dear : 
Ae blink o' him I wadna gie 

For Buskie-glen and all his gear. 

O thoughtless lassie, life's a faught; 

The canniest gate, the strife is sair ; 
But aye fu' han't is fechtin best, 

An hungry care's an unco care : 
But some will spend, and some will spare. 

An' wilfu' folk maun hae their tvill ; 
Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair. 

Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill. 

O, gear will buy me rigs o' land. 

And gear will buy me sheep and kye ; 
But the tender heart o' leesome luve 

The gowd and siller canna buy : 
We may be poor — Robie and T, 

Light is the burden luve lays on ; 
Content and luve brings peace and joy. 

What mair hae queens upon a throne ? 



FAIR ELIZA. 
Tune — The bonnie brucket lassie. 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza ; 

Ae kind blink before we part, 
Rew on thy despairing lover ! 

Canst thou break his faithfu' heart ? 
Turn again thou fair Eliza ; 

If to love thy heart denies. 
For pity hide the cruel sentence 

Under friendship's kind disguise ! 

Thee, dear maid, hae I oflfended .-' 

The offence is loving thee ; 
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, 

Wha for thine would gladly die .'' 
While the life beats in my bosom, 

Thou shalt mix in ilka throe : 
Turn again, thou lovely maiden, 

Ae sweet smile on me bestow. 

Not the bee upon the blossom. 

In the pride o' sunny noon ; 
Not the little sporting fairy, 

All beneath the simmer moon ; 
Not the poet in the moment 

Fancy lighten's in his ee 
Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, 

That thy presence gies to me. 



O LUVE WILL VENTURE IN. 

Tune — The Posie. 

O luve will venture in, where it daurna weel 

be seen, 
O luve will venture in, where wisdom ance 

has been ; 
But I will down yon river rove, amang the 

wood sae green. 
And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. 

The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the 

year, 
And 1 will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my 

dear, 
For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms 

without a peer ; 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps 
in view, 

For its like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonnie 
mou; 

The hyacinth's for constancy, wi' its unchan- 
ging blue. 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair. 
And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily 

there ; 
The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air, 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The hawthorn I will pu' wi' its locks o' siller 

gray. 
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break 

o' day, 



BURNS S POEMS. 



125 



But the songster's nest within the bush I win- 
na tak away ; 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The woodbine I will pu' when the e'ening 

star is near, 
And the diamond drops o' dew shall be her 

een sae clear : 
The violets for modesty, which weel she fa's 

to wear, 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken band o' 

luve, 
And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear 

by a' above, 
That to my latest draught o' life the band 

shall ne'er remuve, 
And this will be a posie to my ain dear May. 

THE BANKS O' DOON. 
Tune — The Caledonian HunVs delight. 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ! 
How can ye chant, ye little birds. 

And I sae weary, fu' o' care ! 
Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, 

That wantons thro' the flowering thorn : 
Thou minds me o' departed joys, 

Departed — never to return. 

Afthae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 
And ilka bird sang o' its luve, 

And fondly sae did I o' mine. 
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu sweet upon its thorny tree ; 
And my fause luver stole my rose. 

But ah! he left the thorn wi' me. 



SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD. 
Tune — Tibbie Fowler in the Glen. 

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed 

The spot they ca'd it Lincumdoddie, 

Willie was a wabster guid, 
Could stown a clue wi' ony bodie ; 

He had a wife was dour and din, 
O Tinkler Madgie was her mither j 

Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wadna gie a button for her. 

She has an ee, slie has but ane, 
The cat has twa the very colour ; 

Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, 

A clapper tongue wad deave a miller ; 

A whiskin beard about her m©u, 

Her nose and chin they threaten ither ; 
Sic a wife, ^c. 

She's bow-liough'd, she's hein shinn'd, 
Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter ; 

She's twisted right, she's twisted left, 
To balance fair in ilka quarter : 



She has a hump upon her breast, 
The twin o' that upon her shouther ; 
Sic a wife, <^c. 

Auld baudrans by the ingle sits, 
An' wi' her loof her face a-washin; 

But Willie's wife is nae sae trig, 

She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion ', 

Her walie nieves like midden-creels, 
Her face wad fyle the Logan-water j 

Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wadna gie a button for her. 



FLOW GENTLY, SWEET AFTON. 
Tune — Afton Water. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 

braes, 
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy 

praise ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her 

dream. 

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' 

the glen. 
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny 

den. 
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming 

forbear, 
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, tliy neighbouring 
hills, 

Far mark'd with the courses of clear, wind- 
ing rills ; 

There daily I wander as noon rises high, 

My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my 
eye. 

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys 

below. 
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses 

blow 
There oft as mild ev'ning weeps over the lea, 
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and 

me. 

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it 
glides. 

And winds by the cot where my Mary re- 
sides ; 

How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave. 

As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy 
clear wave. 

Flow gently, sweet Aflon, among thy green 

braes. 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my 

lays ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her 

dream. 



126 



BURNS S POEMS. 



BONNIE BELL. 

The smiling spring comes in rejoicing, 

And surly winter grimly flies : 
Now crystal clear are the falling waters, 

And bonnie blue are the sunny skies ; 
Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth the 
morning, 

The evening gilds the ocean's swell ; 
All creature's joy in the sun's returning, 

And 1 rejoice in my bonnie Bell. 

The flowery spring leads sunny summer, 

And yellow autumn presses near, 
Then in his turn comes gloomy winter. 

Till smiling spring again appear. 
Thus seasons dancing, life advancing. 

Old Time and Nature their changes tell. 
But never ranging, still unchanging 

I adore my bonnie Bell. 

LOUIS, WHAT RECK I BY THEE. 
Tune — My mother's aye glowring o'er me. 

Louis, what reck I by thee, 

Or Geordie on his ocean .'' 
Dy vor, beggar louns to me, 

I reign in Jeanie's bosom. 

Let her crown my love her law. 
And in her breast enthrone me : 

Kings and nations, swith awa ! 
Reif randies I disown ye ! 



BEHOLD THE HOUR. 
Tune — Oran-gaoil. 

Behold the hour, the boat arrive ; 

Thou goest, thou darling of my heart ! 
Sever'd from thee can 1 survive ? 

But fate has will'd, and we must part. 
I'll often greet this surging swell, 

Yon distant isle will often hail : 
^* E'n here I took the last farewell ; 

There latest mark'd her vanish'd sail." 

Along the solitary shore, 

While flitting sea-fowl round me cry, 
Across the rolling, dashing roar, 

I'll westward turn my wistful eye : 
Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say, 

Where now my Nancy's path may be ! 
While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray, 

O tell me, does she muse on me ! 



SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE. 

She's fair and fause that causes my smart, 

I lo'ed her meikle and laMg : 
She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart, 

And I may e'en gae hang. 



A coof cam in wi' rowth o' gear, 
And I hae tint my dearest dear, 
But woman is but warld's gear, 
Sae let the bonnie lass gang. 

Whae'er ye be that woman love, 

To this be never blind, 
Nae fcrlie 'tis tho' fickle she prove, 

A woman hast by kind : 
O woman lovely, woman fair! 
An angel form's faun to thy share, 
'Twad been o'er meikle to've gientheemair, 

I mean an angel mind. 



GLOOMY DECEMBER. 

Ance mair 1 hail thee, thou gloomy Decem- 
ber ! 
Ance mair I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; 
Sad was the parting thou makes me remem- 
ber, 
Parting wi' Nancy, oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 
Fond lovers' parting is sweet painful plea- 
sure, 
Hope beaming mild on the soft parting 
hour; 
But the dire feeling, farewell for ever, 
Is anguish unmingl'd and agony pure. 

Wild as the winter now tearing the forest. 

Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown, 
Such is the tempest has taken my bosom. 

Since my last hope and my comfort is gone ; 
Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, 

Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; 
For sad was the parting thou makes me re- 
member, 

Parting wi' Nancy, oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 



FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY. 

Tune — The Highland Wath's Farewell. 

My heart is sair, I darena tell, 

My heart is sair for somebody ; 
I could wake a winter night 
For the sake o' somebody. 
Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 
I could range the world around, 
For the sake o' somebody. 

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, 

O, sweetly smile on somebody ! 
Frae ilka danger keep him free, 
And send me safe ray somebody. 
Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 
I wad do — what wad I not ? 
For the sake o' somebody ! 

THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS. 
The lovely lass o' Inverness, 

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ; 
For e'en and morn she cries, alas ! 

And aye the saut tear blins her eye : 



BURNS a POEMS. 



127 



Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, 

A vvaefu' day it was to nie ; 
For there I lost my father dear, 

My father dear, and brethren three. 

Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay, 

Their graves are growing green to see ; 
And by them lies the dearest lad 

That ever blest a woman's eye ! 
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, 

A bluidy man I trow thou be ; 
For mony a heart thou hast made sair, 

That ne'er did wrancr to thine or thee. 



O MAY, THY MORN. 

O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet, 
As the mirk night o' December ; 

For sparkling was the rosy wine, 
And private was the chamber : 

And dear was she I darena name, 
But I will aye remember. 
And dear, ^c. 

And here's to them, that, like oursel, 

Can push about the jorum ; 
And here's to them that wish us weel, 

May a' that's guid watch o'er them; 
And here's to them we darena tell, 

The dearest o' the quorum. 
Jlnd here's to, ^c. 

O, WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN ? 
Tune — The honnie lass in yon town. 

O, wat ye wha's in yon town, 

Ye see the e'enin sun upon .'' 
The fairest dame's in yon town, 

That e'ening sun is shining on. 

Now haply down yon gay green shaw, 
She wanders by yon spreading tree : 

How blest ye flow'rs that round her blaw. 
Ye catch the glances o' her ee ! 

How blest ye birds that round her sing, 
And welcome in the blooming year, 

And doubly welcome be the spring, 
The season to my Lucy dear ! 

The sun blinks blithe on yon town, 
And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr j 

But my delight in yon town. 
And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair. 

Without my love, not a' the charms 
O' Paradise could yield me joy! 

But gie me Lucy in my arms. 
And welcome Lapland's dreary sky. 

My cave \\rad be a lover's bower, 
Tho' raging winter rent the air ; 

And she a lovely little flower, 
That 1 wad tent and shelter there. 



sweet is she in yon town, 

Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon ; 
A fairer than's in yon town, 

His setting beam ne'er shone upon. 

If angry fate is sworn my foe, 
And suffering I am doom'd to bear ; 

1 careless quit aught else below, 

But spare me, spare me Lucy dear. 

For while life's dearest blood is warm, 
Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart, 

And she — as fairest is her form I 
She has the truest, kindest heart. 



A RED, RED ROSE. 
Tune — Wishaw's Favourite. 

O, my luve's like a red, red rose. 
That's newly sprung in June: 

O, my luve's like the melodic 
That's sweetly play'd in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

So deep in luve am I : 
And I will luve thee still my dear, 

Till a' the seas gang dry. 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear^ 
And the rocks melt wi' the sun : 

I will luve the still, my dear. 
While the sands o' life shall run. 

And fare thee weel, ray only luve ! 

And fare the weel awhile ! 
And I will come again, my luve, 

Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 



A VISION. 
Tune — Cumnock Psalms. 

As I stood by yon roofless tower, 

Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air,. 
Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower. 

And tells the midnight moon her care. 

The winds were laid, the air was still, 
The stars they shot alang the sky ; ,. 

The fox was howling on the hill. 
And the distant-echoing glens reply. 

The stream, adown its hazelly path, 

Was rushing by the ruin'd wa'. 
Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, 

Whose distant roarings swell and fa'. 

The cauld blue north was streaming forth 
Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din; 

Athort the lift they start and shift, 
Like fortune's favours, tint as won. 

By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes. 
And, by the moon-beam, shook tasee 

A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, 
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. 



128 



BURNS S POEMS. 



Had I a statue been o' Btane, 

His darin' look had daunted me ; 

And on his bonnet grav'd was plain 
The sacred posie — Libertie ! 

And frae his harp sic strains did flow, 

Might rous'd the slumbering dead to hear ; 

But oh, it was a tale of woe, 
As ever met a Briton's ear, 

He sang wi' joy his former day, 
He weeping wail'd his latter times ; 

But what he said it was nae play, 
I winnaventure'tin my rhymes. 



NAE GENTLE DAMES. 

Tune — The deuks dang o'er my daddy. 

Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair, 
Shall ever be my muse's care ; 
Their titles a' are empty show ; 
„^ Gie me my highland lassie, O. 

CHORUS. 

Within the glen sae bushy, 0, 
About the •plain sae rushy, O, 
J set me down wi' right good will, 
To sing my highland lassie, 0. 

Oh, were yon hills and valleys mine, 
Yon palace and yon gardens fine! 
The world then the love should know 
I bear my highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, ^c. 

But fickle fortune frowns on me, 
And I maun cross the raging sea ; 
But while my crimson currents flow, 
I'll love my highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, <^c. 

Altho' thro' foreign climes I range, 
I know her heart will never change, 
For her bosom burns with honour's glow, 
My faithful highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, ^c. 

For her I'll dare the billow's roar. 
For her I'll dare the distant shore, 
That Indian wealth may lustre throw, 
Around my highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, <^c. 

She has my heart, she has my hand, 
By sacred truth and honour's band! 
Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, 
I'm thine, my highland lassie, O. 

Farexoeel the glen sae bushy, ! 

Fareweel the plain sae rushy, O ! 
To other lands I now must go. 
To sing my highland Lassie, 0! 



OH, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD 
BLAST. 

Tune — The lass of Livingstone. 

Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast, 

On yonder lea, on yonder lea ; 
My plaidie to the angry airt, 

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee. 
Or did misfortune's bitter storms 

Around the blaw, around the blaw. 
Thy bield should be my bosom. 

To share it a', to share it a'. 

Or were I in the wildest waste, 

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, 
The desert were a paradise. 

If thou wert there, if thou wert there. 
Or were I a monarch o' the globe, 

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign. 
The brightest jewel in my crown. 

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. 

— ©©©— 
JOCKEY'S TA'EN THE PARTING KISS. 

Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss, 
O'er the mountains he is gane ; 

And with him is a' ray bliss. 

Nought but griefs with me remain. 

Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw, 
Flashy sleets and beating rain ! 

Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw, 
Drifting o'er the frozen plain ! 

When the shades of evening creep 
O'er the day's fair, gladsome ee, 

Sound and safely may he sleep, 
Sweetly blithe his waukening be ! 

He will think on her he loves. 
Fondly he'll repeat her name ; 

For where'er he distant roves, 
Jockey's heart is still at hame. 



MY PEGGY'S FACE. 

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form, 
The frost of hermit age might warm ; 
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind, 
Might charm the first of human kind. 
I love my Peggy's angel air, 
Her face so truly heavenly fair, 
Her native grace so void of art ; 
But I adore my Peggy's heart. 

The lily's hue, the rose's dye, 
The kindling lustre of an eye ; 
Who but owns their magic sway, 
Who but knows they all decay ! 
The tender thrill, the pitying tear, 
The generous purpose, nobly dear. 
The gentle look that rage disarms, 
These are all immortal charms. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



129 



UP IN THE MORNING EARLY.* 

Up in the morning'' s no for me, 

Up in the morning early ; 
When a' the hills are covered wV snaw, 

Frti sure its winter fairly . 

Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west, 

The drift is driving sairly; 
Sae loud and shrill's I hear the blast, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

The birds sit chittering in the thorn, 
A' day they fare but sparely ; 

And lang's the night frae e'en to morn, 
I'm sure it's winter fairly. 
Up in ttie morning, «^c. 



I DREAM'D I LAY WHERE FLOW- 
ERS WERE SPRINGING, f 

I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing 

Gaily in the sunny beam ; 
List'ning to the wild birds singing. 

By a falling, crystal stream : 
Straight the sky grew black and daring ; 

Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave ; 
Trees with aged arms were warring, 

O'er the swelling, drumlie wave. 

Such was my life's deceitful morning, 

Such the pleasures I enjoy'd ; 
But lang or noon, loud tempests storming 

A' my flowery bliss destroy'd. 
Tho' fickle fortune has deceived me, 

She promis'd fair, and perform"d but ill ; 
Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd me, 

I bear a heart shall support me still. 



BEWARE O' BONNIE ANN.t 

Ye gallants bright, I red you right, 

Beware o' bonnie Ann ; 
Her comely face sae fu' o' grace. 

Your heart she will trepan. 

Her een sae bright, like stars by night, 

Her skin is like the swan; 
Sae jimpy lac'd her gentj^ waist. 

That sweetly ye might span. 

Youth, grace, and love, attendant move, 

And pleasure leads the van ; 
In a' their charms, and conquering arms. 

They wait on bonnie Ann. 

* The chorus is old. 
f These two stanzas I composed when I was 
seventeen, and are among the oldestof my printed 
pieces. Burns^s Reliques, p. 242. 

\ I composed this song in compliment to jMiss 
Atm Masterton, the daughter oftuy friend Allan 
Masterton, the author of the air of Strathallan's 
Lament, and two or three others in this work. 
jBurns's Reliques, p. 226. 

17 



The captive bands may chain the hands, 

But love enslaves the man; 
Ye gallants braw, I red you a', 

Beware o' bonnie Ann. 

MY BONNIE MARY/ 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 

An' fill it in a silver tassie ; 
That I may drink before I go, 

A service to my bonnie lassie. 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith ; 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry ; 
The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 

And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. 

The trumpets sound, the banners fly. 

The glittering spears are ranked ready ; 
The shouts o' war are heard afar, 

The battle closes thick and bloody ; 
But it's no the roar o' sea or shore 

Wad mak me langer wish to tarry ; 
Nor shout o' war that's heard afar. 

It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. 



THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY.t 

Tune — jYeil Gow's Lament. 

There's a youth in this city, it were a great 
pity 
That he from our lasses should wander 
awa; 
For he's bonnie and braw, weel favoured 
witha", 
And his hair has a natural buckle and a'. 
His coat is the hue of his bonnet so blue ; 
His fecket:f is white as the new-driven 
snaw ; 
His hose they are blae, and his shoon like 
the slae, 
And his clear siller buckles they dazzle 
us a'. 
His coat is the hue, &c. 

For beauty and fortune's the laddie's been 
courtin ; 
Weel-featur'd, weel-tocher'd, weel-mount- 
ed and braw ; 
But chiefly the siller that gars him gang till 
her, 
The penny's the jewel that beautifies a'. 
There's Meg wi' the mailen, that fain wad a 
haen him, 
And Susy whose daddy was Laird o' the 
ha' ; 
There's lang-tocher'd Nancy maist fetters his 
fancy, 
— But the laddie's dear sel he lo'es dearest 
of a'. 

^ This air is Oswald's ; the first half stanza of 
the song is old. 

f This air is claim'd by Neil Gow, who calls it 
his lament for his brother. The first half-stanza 
of the song is old. 

\ Fccketf an under waistdoat with sl«e?es. 



130 



BURNS S POEMS. 



MY HEART'S IN TflE HIGHLANDS* 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not 

here ; 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the 

deer; 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the 

North, 
The birth-place of valour, the country of 

worth J 
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, 
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. 

Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with 
snow ; 

Farewell to the straths and green valleys be- 
low ; 

Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging 
woods ; 

Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring 
floods. 

My heart's in the Highland's, my heart is 
not here, 

My heart's in the Highland's a-chasing the 
deer: 

Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 

My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. 



THE RANTIN DOG THE DADDIE O'T.t 

O wha my babie-clouts will buy ? 
Wha will tent me when 1 cry ? 
Wha will kiss me where I lie ? 
The rantin dog the daddic o't. — 

Wha will own he did the faut ? 
Wha will buy my groanin-maut ? 
Wha will tell me how to ca'-t P 
The rantin dog the daddie o't — 

When I mount the creepie-chair, 
Wha will sit beside me there ."* 
Gie me Rob, I seek nae niair, 
The rantin dog the daddie o't. — 

Wha will crack to me my lane .'' 
Wha will mak me fidgin fain.' 
Wha will kiss me o'er again.'* 
The rantin dog the daddie o't. — 



WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER DOOR ? 

Wha is that at my bower door .-* 

O wha is it but Findlay ; 
Then gae your gate, ye'se nae be here ! 

Indeed maun I, quo' Findlay. 
What mak ye sae like a thief.-' 

O come and see, quo' Findlay ; 
Before the mornye'll work mischief; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 

* The first half-stanza is old. 

t I composed this song pretty early in life, and 
sent it to a young girl, a very particular acquaiut- 
anG« of mine, who wasat that time uiider acloiul. 
Burns' s Rdiques, p. 27li. 



Gif I rise and lot you in ; 

Let me in, quo' Findlay ; 
Ye '11 keep me waukin wi' your din ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 
In my bower if ye should stay ; 

Let me stay, quo' Findlay ; 
I fear ye'll bide till break o' day ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 

Here this night if ye remain ; 

I'll remain, quo' Findlay ; 
I dread ye'll learn the gate again , 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 
What may pass within this bower — 

Let it pass, quo' Findlay ; 
Ye maun conceal to your last hour ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 



I DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE FAIR.* 

I do confess thou art sae fair, 

I wad been o'er the lugs in luve ; 

Had I not found the slightest prayer 
That lips could speak, thy heart could 
muve. 

I do confess thee sweet, but find 
Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets, 

Thy favours are the silly wind 
That kisses ilka thing it meets. 

See yonder rose-bud rich in dew, 
Amang its native briers sae coy, 

How soon it tines its scent and hue 
When pu'd and worn a common toy ! 

Sic fate ere lang shall thee betide, 
Tho' thou may gaily bloom awhile ; 

Yet soon thou shalt be thrown aside. 
Like onv common weed and vile. 



YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS. 

Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide, 
That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the 

Clyde, 
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the 

heather to feed. 
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes 

on his reed : 

Where the grouse, &c. 

Not Gowrie's rich valley, nor Forth's sunny 

shores, 
To me hae the charms o' yon wild mossy 

moors : 
For there, by a lanely, sequester'd clear 

stream, 
Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my 

dream. 



* This song is altered from a poem by Sir Ro- 
bert Ayton, private secretary to Mary and Anne, 
queens of Scotland. The poem is to be found in 
James Watson's Collection of Scots Poems, the 
earliest collection printed in Scotland. — I think 
that I have inqiroved the simplicity of the seuti- 
nients, by giving them a Scots dress. 

Burns^s Rcli'jues^ p. 292. 



I 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



131 



Amang tliae wild. mountains shall still be my 
path, 

Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, nar- 
row strath ; 

For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove. 

While o'er ns unheeded, fly the switt hours 
o' love. 

She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair ; 
O' nice education but sma' is her share ; 
Her parentage humble as bumble can be ; 
But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me. 

To beauty what man but maun yield him a 

l^rize, 
In her armour of glances, and blushes, and 

sighs ? 
And when wit and refinement hae polish'd 

her darts. 
They dazzle our een, as they fly to our hearts. 

But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond 

sparkling ee, 
Has lustre outshining the diamond to me ; 
And the heart-beating love, as I'm clasp'd in 

her arms, 
O, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms! 



THO' CRUEL FATE. 

Tho' cruel fate should bid us part, 

As far's the pole and line ; 
Her dear idea round my heart 

Should tenderly entwine. 

Tho' mountains frown and deserts howl. 

And oceans roar between : 
Yet, dearer than my deathless soul, 

I still would love my Jean. 



FARE THEE WEEL. 

Ac fond kiss, and then we sever ! 
Ae fareweel, alas, for ever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
Who shall say that fortune grieves him 
While the star of hope she leaves him ? 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; 
Dark despair around benights me. 

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
Naething could resist my Nancy ; 
But to see her, was to love her ; 
Love but her, and love for ever. 
Had we never lov'd sae kindly, 
Had we never lov'd sae blindly, 
Never met — or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! 
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest ! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure. 
Peace, enjoyment, love and pleasure 



Ae fond kiss, and tlien we sever \ 

Ab fareweel, alas, for ever ! 

Deep in heart-wrung tiears I pledge thee, 

Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 



THE BONNIE BLINK O' MARY'S EE 

Now bank an' brae are claith'd in green, 

An' scatter 'd cowslips sweetly spring, 
By Girvan's fairy haunted stream 

The birdies flit on wanton wing. 
To Cassillis' banks when e'ening fa's, 

There wi' my Mary let me flee, 
There catch her ilka glance o' love, 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's ee ! 

The chield wha boasts o' warld's wealth, 

Is aften laird o' meikle care -, 
But Mary she is a' my ain, 

Ah, fortune canna gie me mair ! 
Then let me range by Cassillis' banks 

Wi' her the lassie dear to me, 
And catch her ilka glance o' love, 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's ee! 



THE BONNIIE LAD THAT'S FAR 
AWA. 

O how can I be blithe and glad, 
Or how can I gang brisk and braw, 

When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best 
Is o'er the hills and far awa .'' 

It's no the frosty winter wind, 

It's no the driving drift and snaw ; 

But aye the tear comes in my ee, 
To think on him that's far awa. 

M}' father pat me frae his door, 

My friends they hae disown'd me a', 

But I hae ane will tak my part. 
The bonnie lad that's far awa. 

A pair o' gloves he gae to me, 
And silken snoods* he gae me twa ; 

And I will wear them for his sake. 
The bonnie lad that's far awa. 

The weary winter soon will pass. 

And spring will deed the birkea-shaw ; 

And my sweet babie will be born. 
And hell come hame that's far awa. 



OUT OVER THE FORTH. 

Out over the Forth I look to the north, 
But what is the north and its Highlands 
to me .'' 

The south nor the east gie ease to my breast. 
The far foreign land, or the wild rolling sea. 

But I look to the west, when I gae to rest, 
That happy my dreams and my slumbers 
may be ; 

For far in the west lives he I lo'e best. 
The lad that is dear to my babie and me. 

* Ribands for binding the hair. 



132 



BURNS S POEMS. 



THE GOWDEN LOCKS OF ANNA. 
Tune — Banks of Banna. 

Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, 

A place where body saw na' ; 
Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine 

The gowden locks of Anna. 
The hungry Jew in wilderness 

Rejoicing o'er his manna, 
Was naething to my hinny bliss 

Upon the lips of Anna. 

Ye monarchs, tak the east and west, 

Frae Indus to Savannah ! 
Gie me within my straining grasp 

The melting form of Anna. 
There I'll despise imperial charms, 

An Empress or Sultana, 
While dying raptures in her arms 

I give and take with Anna ! 

Awa, thou flaunting god o' day ! 

Awa, thou pale Diana ! 
Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray 

When I'm to meet my Anna. 
Come, in thy raven plumage, night, 

Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a' ', 
And bring an angel pen to write 

My transports wi' my Anna ! 

THE DEIL'S AWA WI' THE 
EXCISEMAN.* 

The Deil cam fiddling thro' the town, 
And danc'd awa wi' the Excisemen ; 

And ilka wife cry'd, " Auld Mahoun, 
We wish you luck o' your prize, man. 

CHORUS. 

" We'll mak our maut, and brew our drink, 
We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man ; 
Mnd monie thanks to the muckle black Deil 
That danc'd awa wV the Exciseman. 

" There's threesome reels, and foursome 

reels. 
There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man ; 
But the ae best dance e'er cam to our Ian', 
Was — the Deil's awa wi' the Exciseman. 
'* We'll mak our maut, ^'c" 

BANKS OF DEVON. 

How pleasant the banks of the clear winding 
Devon, 
With green-spreading bushes, and flowers 
blooming fair ; 
But the bonniest flower on the banks of the 
Devon 
Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the 
Ayr. 

* At a meeting of his brother Excisemen in 
Dumfries, Burns, being called upon for a Song, 
handed these verses extempore to the President, 
written on the back of a letter. 



Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, 

In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the 

dew! 

And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, 

That steals on the evening each leaf to 

renew. 

O, spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes. 
With chill hoary wing as ye usher the 
dawn ! 
And far be thou distant, thou reptile that 
seizes 
The verdure and pride of the garden and 
lawn! 

Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded Ulies, 
And England triumphant display her proud 
rose; 
A fairer than either adorns the green valleys 
Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering 
flows. 



STREAMS THAT GLIDE. 

Streams that glide in orient plains, 
Never bound by winter's chains ! 
Glowing here on golden sands, 
There commix 'd with foulest stains 
From tyranny's empurpled bands : 
These, their richly-gleaming waves, 
I leave to tyrants and their slaves ; 
Give me the stream that sweetly laves 
The banks by Castle Gordon. 

Spicy forests, ever gay, 
Shading from the burning ray 
Hapless wretches sold to toil. 
Or the ruthless native's way, 
Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil : 
Woods that ever verdant wave, 
I leave the tyrant and the slave, 
Give me the groves that lofty brave 
The storms, by Castle Gordon. 

Wildly here without control. 
Nature reigns and rules the whole ; 
In that sober pensive mood, 
Dearest to the feeling soul, 
She plants the forest, pours the flood ; 
Life's poor day I'll musing rave, 
And find at night a sheltering cave. 
Where waters flow and wild woods wave, 
By bonnie Castle Gordon. 



BLITHE HAE I BEEN ON YON HILL. 
Tune — Liggeram Cosh. 

Blithe hae I been on yon hill. 

As the lambs before me ; 
Careless ilka thought and free, 

As the breeze flew o'er rae : 

Now nae longer sport and play, 
Mirth or sang can please me ; 

Lesley is sae fair and coy, 
Care and anguish seize me. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



133 



Heavy, heavy is the task, 
Hopeless love declaring : 

Trembling, I dow nocht but glowr, 
Sighing, dumb, despairing ! 

If she winna ease the thraws 

In my bosom swelling ; 
Underneath the grass-green sod 

Soon maun be my dwelhng. 



FRAGMENT, 
IN witherspoon's collection of scots 

SONGS. 

Tune — Hughie Graham. 

" O gin my love were yon red rose 
That grows upon the castle wa', 

And I mysel' a drap o' dew. 
Into her bonnie breast to fa' ! 

Oh, there beyond expression blest, 
I'd feast on beauty a' the night ; 

Seal'd on her silk-safl fauds to rest, 
Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light." 

* O were my love yon lilac fair, 
Wi' purple blossoms to the spring ; 

And I, a bird to shelter there, 
When wearied on my little wing : 

How I wad mourn, when it was torn 
By autumn wild, and winter rude ! 

But I wad sing on wanton wing, 
When y outhfu' May its bloom renew 'd.* 



ADOWN WINDING NITH. 
Tune — The muckie o' Geor die's lyre. 

Adown winding Nith I did wander. 

To mark the sweet flowers as they spring } 

Adown winding Nith I did wander, 
Of PhiUis to muse and to sing. 

CHORUS. 

Awa wV your belles and your beauties, 
They never wi' her can compare ; 

Whaever has met wi' my PhiUis, 
Has met wi' the queen o' the fair. 

The daisy amus'd my fond fancy, 

So artless, so simple, so wild ; 
Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis, 

For she is simplicity's child. 
Awa, &^c. 

The rose-bud's the blush o' my charmer, 
Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest ; 

How fair and how pure is the lily. 
But fairer and purer her breast. 
Awa, ^c. 

* These stanzas were added by Burns. 



Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, 
They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie : 

Her breath is the breath o' the woodbine. 
Its dew-drop o' diamond, her eye. 
Awa, 4^c. 

Her voice is the song of the rooming 
That wakes through the green-spreading 
^rove. 
When Phoebus peeps over the mountains, 
On music, and pleasure, and love. 
Awa, «^c. 

But beauty how frail and how fleeting, 
The bloom of a fine summer's day ! 

While worth in the mind o' my Phillis 
Will flourish without a decay. 
Aioa, &/-C. 



COME, LET ME TAKE THEE. 

Tune — Cauld Kail. 

Come, let me take thee to my breast. 

And pledge we ne'er shall sunder j 
And I shall spurn as vilest dust 

The warld's wealth and grandeur : 
An^ do I hear my Jeanie own 

That equal transports move her ? 
I ask for dearest life alone 

That I may live to love her. 

Thus in my arms, wi' all tby charms, 

I clasp my countless treasure ; 
I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share, 

Than sic a moment's pleasure : 
And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, 

I swear I'm thine for ever? 
And on thy lips I seal my vow, 

And break it shall I never. 



THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER, JAMIE. 
Tune — Fee him, Father. 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left 

me ever. 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou has left 

me ever. 
Aften hast thou vow'd that death only should 

us sever. 
Now thou'st left thy lass for aye — I maun see 

thee never, Jamie, 
I'll see thee never. 

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me 

forsaken. 
Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me 

forsaken. 
Thou canst love anither jo, while my heart 

is breaking. 
Soon my weary een I'll close — Never mair 

to waken, Jamie, 
Ne'er mair to waken. 



134 



BURNS S POEMS. 



WHERE ARE THE JOYS. 
Tune — Saw ye my Father. 

Where are the joys I have met in the morn- 
ing, 
That danc'd to the lark's early song ? 
Where is the peace that awaited my wand- 
'ring, 
At evening the wild woods among i* 

No more a-winding the course of yon river, 
And marking sweet flow'rets so fair : 

No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure, 
But sorrow and sad sighing care. 

Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, 
And grim, surly winter is near ? 

No, no, the bees humming round the gay ro- 
ses, 
Proclaim it the pride of the year. 

Fain would I hide what I fear to discover, 
Yet long, long too well have I known : 

All that has caused this wreck in my bosom, 
Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. 

Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, 
Nor hope dare a comfort bestow : 

Come then, enamour'd and fond of my an- 
guish. 
Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe. 



O SAW YE MY DEAR. 

Tune — When she cam ben she hohhit. 

O saw ye my dear, my Phely .'' 
O saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 
She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new love, 
She winna come hame to her Willy. 

What says she, my dearest, my Phely ? 
What says she, my dearest, my Phely? 
She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot, 
And for ever disowns thee her Willy. 

O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
Oh had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, 
Thou'st broken the heart o' thy Willy. 

LET NOT WOMAN E'ER COMPLAIN. 
Tune — Duncan Gray. 

Let not woman e'er complain 

Of inconstancy in love ; 
Let not woman e'er complain, 

Fickle man is apt to rove : 

Look abroad through Nature's range, 
Nature's mighty law is change j 
Ladies, would it not be strange, 
Man should then a monster prove ? 



Mark the winds, and mark the skies ; 

Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow; 
Sun and moon but set to rise. 

Round and round the seasons go. 

Why then ask of silly man, 
To oppose great Nature's plan? 
We'll be constant while we can — 
You can be no more, you know. 



MY CHLORIS. 
Tune — My Lodging is on the cold ground. 

My Chloris mark how green the groves, 

The primrose banks how fair, 
The balmy gales awake the flowers. 

And wave thy flaxen hair. 

The lav'rock shuns the palace gay, 

And o'er the cottage sings : 
For nature smiles as sweet, I ween, 

To shepherds as to kings. 

Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string 

In lordly lighted ha' : 
The shepherd stops his simple reed, 

Blithe, in the birken shaw. 

The princely revel may survey 

Our rustic dance wi' scorn; 
But are their hearts as light as ours 

Beneath the milk-white thorn ? 

The shepherd, in the flowery glen, 
In shepherd's phrase will woo : 

The courtier tells a finer tale, 
But is his heart as true ? 

These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck 

That spotless breast o' thine : 
The courtiers' gems may witness love — 

But 'tisna love like mine. 



CHARMING MONTH OF MAY.* 

It was the charming month of May, 
When all the flowers were fresh and gay. 
One morning, by the break of day, 
The youthful charming Chloe ; 

From peaceful slumber she arose, 
Girt on her mantle and her hose, 
And o'er the flowery mead she goes, 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 

chorus. 
Lovely loas she by the dawn, 

Youthful Chloe, charming ChloCf 
Tripping o'er the pearly lawn. 

The youthful, charming Chloe. 

The feather'd people you might see 
Perch'd all around on every tree, 
In notes of sweetest melody 
They hail the charming Chloe ; 

* Altered from an old English song. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



135 



T ill, painting gay the eastern skies, 
The glorious sun began to rise, 
Out-rivalled by the radiant eyes 
Of youthful, charming Cliloe. 
Lovely was she, &c. 



O PHILLY. 

Tune— r/te Sow's Tail. 

HE. 

O Philly, happy be that day 
When, roving through the gathered hay, 
My youthfu' heart was stown away. 

And by thy charms, my Philly. 

SHE. 

O Willy, aye I bless the grove, 
Where first I own'd my maiden love, 
Whilst thou didst pledge the Powers above, 
To be my ain dear Willy. 

HE. 

As songsters of the early year, 
Are ilka day mair sweet to hear. 
So ilka day to me mair dear 
And charming is my Philly. 

SHE. 

As on the brier the budding rose 
Still richer breathes and fairer blows. 
So in my tender bosom grov^^s 
The love I bear ray Willy. 

HE. 

The milder sun and bluer sky. 
That crown my harvest cares wi' joy, 
Were ne'er sae w^elcome to my eye 
As is a sight o' Philly. 

SHE. 

The little swallow's wanton wing, 
Tho' wafting o'er the flowery spring, 
Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring, 
As meeting o' my Willy. 

HE. 

The bee that thro' the sunny hour 
Sips nectar in the opening flower, 
Compar'd wi' my delight is poor, 
Upon the lips o' Philly. 

SHE. 

The woodbine in the dewy weet 
When evening shades in silence meet. 
Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet 
As is a kiss o' Willy. 

HE. 

Let fortune's wheel at random rin, 
And fools may tyne, and knaves may win; 
My thoughts are a' bound up in ane, 
And that's my ain dear Philly. 



SHE. 



What's a' the joys that gowd can gie ! 
I carena wealth a single flic ; 
The lad 1 love's the lad for me, 
And that's my ain dear Willy. 



CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS. 
Tune — Roy's Wife. 

CHORUS. 

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
Well thou know'st my aching heart, 
And canst thou leave me thus for pity ? 

Is this thy plighted, fond regard, 
Thus cruelly to part, my Katy ? 

Is this thy faithful swain's reward — 
An aching, broken heart, my Katy ? 
Canst thou, &c. 

Farewell ! and ne'er such sorrows tear 
That fickle heart of thine, my Katy ! 

Thou may'st find those will love thee dear- 
But not a love like mine, my Katy. 
Canst thou, &c. 



CAN I CEASE TO CARE .' 
Tune — Jlye Wakin 0. 

CHORUS. 

Long, long the night, 
' Heavy comes the morrowy 
While my souVs delight 
Is on her bed of sorrow. 

Can I cease to care ? 

Can I cease to languish, 
While my darling fair 

Is on the couch of anguish .'' 
Long, &c. 

Every hope is fled. 
Every fear is terror ; 

Slumber even I dread, 
Every dream is horror. 
Long, &c. 

Hear me, Pow'rs divine ! 

Oh, in pity hear me, 
Take aught else of mine, 

But my Chloris spare me ' 
Long, &c. 

JOHN BARLEYCORN.* 

A BALLAD. 

There was three kings into the east. 
Three kings both great and high. 

An' they hae sworn a solemn oath 
John Barleycorn should die. 



* This is partly composed on Uie plan of an 
old song known by the same name. 



136 



BURNS'S POEMS, 



They took a plough and plough'd him down, 

Put clods upon his head, 
And they hae sworn a solemn oath 

John Barleycorn was dead. 

But the cheerful spring came kindly on, 

And show'rs began to fall ; 
John Barleycorn got up again, 

And sore surpris'd them all. 

The sultry suns of summer came, 

And he grew thick and strong, 
His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears, 

That no one should him wrong. 

The sober autumn enter'd mild, 

When he grew wan and pale ; 
His bending joints and drooping head, 

Show'd he began to fail. 

His colour sicken'd more and more, 

He faded into age ; 
And then his enemies began 

To show their deadly rage. 

They've ta'en a weapon, long and sharp, 

And cut him by the knee ; 
Then tied him fast upon a cart. 

Like a rogue for forgerie. 

They laid him down upon his back, 

And cudgel'd him full sore ; 
They hung him up before the storm, 

And turn'd him o'er and o'er. 



They filled up a darksome pit 

With water to the brim. 
They heaved in John Barleycorn, 

There let him sink or swim. 

They laid him out upon the floor, 

To work him farther wo. 
And still, as signs of life appear'd, 

They toss'd him to and fro. 

They wasted, o'er a scorching flame, 

The marrow of his bones j 
But a miller us'd him worst of all, 

For he crush *d him between two stones. 

And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood. 
And drank it round and round ; 

And still the more and more they drank, 
Their joy did more abound. 

John Barleycorn was a hero bold, 

Of noble enterprise, 
For if you do but taste his blood, 

'Twill make your courage rise. 

'Twill make a man forget his wo ; 

'Twill heighten all his joy : 
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, 

Tho' the tear were in her eye. 

Then let us toast John Barleycorn, 

Each man a glass in hand \ 
And may his great posterity 

Ne'er fail in old Scotland ! 



t^"?'".""''■■■..v^ 





SONG. 
ToNE-^Corw rigs are bonnie. 

It was upon a Lammas liijS^ht, 

When corn rigs are bonhie, 
B^iieath the moon's unclouded light, 

I held awa to Annie : 
The time flew by wi' tentless heed, 

Till, 'tween the late and early, 
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed, 

To see rae thro' the barley. 

The sky was blue, the wind was still, 

The moon was shining clearly ; 
I set her down, wi' right good will, 

Amang the rigs o' barley : 
I ken'd her heart was a' my ain ; 

I lov'd her most sincerely ; 
1 kiss'd herowre andowre again 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

I lock'd hfer in my fond embrace ; 

Her heart was beating rarely ; 
My blessings on that happy place, 

Amang the rigso' barley! 
Bat by the moon and stars so bright, 

That shone that hour so clearly ! 
She aye shall bless that happy night 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

t hae been blythe wi' comrades dear j 

I hae been merry drinkin ; 
I hae been joyfu' gath'ring gear ; 

I hae been happy thinkin ; 
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 

Tho' three times doubled fairly, 
That happy night was worth them a', 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

18 



CHORDS. 



O corn rigs, an^ barley rigSf 
An' corn rigs are bonnie : 

ril ne'er forget that happy night, 
Amang ike rigs wi' Annie. 



SONG. 

COMPOSED IN AUGUSti 

Tune — I had a horse, I had nae mair. 

Now westlin winds, and slaught'ring guns 

Bring autumn's pleasant weather ; 
The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, 

Amang the blooming heather: 
Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain, 

Delights the weary farmer ; 
And the moon shines bright, when I rove at 
night 

To muse upon my charmer. 

The partridge loves the fruitful fells j 

The plover loves the mountains ; 
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells j 

The soaring hern the fountains : 
Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves, 

The path of man to shun it ; 
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrash, 

The spreading thorn the linnet. 

Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find. 

The savage and the tender : 
Some social join, and leagues combine j 

Some solitary wander : 
Avaunt, away ! the cruel sway, 

Tyrannic man's dominion ; 
The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring «ry, 

The fiutt'ring, gory pinion I 



138 



BURNS S POEMS. 



But Peggy dear, the evening's clear, 

Thick flies the skimming swallow; 
The sky is blue, the fields in view, 

All fading-green and yellow : 
Come let us stray our gladsome way, 

And view the charms of nature ; 
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, 

And every happy creature. 

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, 

Till the silent moon shine clearly ; 
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, 

Swear how I love thee dearly : 
Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs, 

Not autumn to the farmer, 
So dear can be as thou to me, 

My fair, my lovely charmer ! 

SONG. 
Tune — My Nannie, 0. 

Beyond yon hills where Lugar* flows, 
'Mang moors and mosses many, O, 

The wintry sun the day has clos'd, 
And I'll awa to Nannie, O. 

The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill ; 

The night's baith mirk and rainy, O ^ 
But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal, 

And owre the hill to Nannie, O. 

My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young, 
Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O ; 

May ill befa' the flattering tongue 
That wad beguile my Nannie, O. 

Her face is fair, her heart is true, 
As spotless as she's bonnie, O : 

The op'ning gowan, wet wi' dew, 
Nae purer is than Nannie, O. 

A country lad is my degree. 

An' few there be that ken me, O ; 

But what care I how few they be, 
I'm welcome aye to Nannie, O. 

My riches a's my penny-fee, 
An' I maun guide it cannie, O ; 

But warl's gear ne'er troubles me. 
My thoughts are a' my Nannie, O. 

Our auld Guidman delights to view 
His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, O; 

But I'm as blythe that hands his plough, 
An' has nae care but Nannie, O. 

Come weel, come wo, I carena by, 

I'll tak what Heav'n will send me, O j 

Nae ither care in life have I, 
But live, an' love my Nannie, O. 



* Originally, Jstinchar. 



GREEN GROW THE RASHE^\ 



A FRAGMENT. 



CHORUS. 



Green grow the rashes, .' 

Green grow the rashes, O ! 
The sweetest hours that e'er I spent. 

Were spent aviang the lass-es, O ! 

There's nought but care on ev'ry han', 

In ev'ry hour that passes, O ; 
What signifies the life o' man. 

An' 'twerena for the lasses, O. 

Gieen grow,&,c 

The warly race may riches chase, 
An' riches still may fly them, O ; 

An' tho' at last they catch them fast, 
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O. 
Green grow, &.C 

But gie me a cannio hour at e'en, 
My arms about my dearie, O ; 

An' warly cares, an' v/arly men, 
May a' gae tapsalteerie, O ! 

Green grow , &c.- 

For you sae douse, ye sneer at this, 
Ye're nought but senseless asses, O : 

The wisest man the warl' e'er saw, 
He dearly lov'd the lasses, O. 

Greengrow, &c. 

Auld Nature swears, tlie lovely dears 
Her noblest work she classes, O : 

Her 'prentice han' she tried on man, 
An' then she made the lasses, O. 

Green grow, &c. 



SONG. 
TuNJE — Jockey's Gray Breeks. 

Again rejoicing nature sees 

Her robe assume its vernal hues, 

Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, 
All freshly steep'd in morning dews. 

CHORUS.* 

And maun I still onMenic] doat, 
And hear the scorn thaVs in her eef 

For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk. 
An' it winna let a body he ! 

In vain to me the cowslips blavv. 
In vain to me the vi'lets spring : 

In vain to me, in glen or shaw, 
The mavis and the lintwhite sing. 

And viaiin I still, &,c. 

* This chorus is part of a song composed by a 
gentleman in Ediuburgli, a particular friend of 
the author's. 

f Menie is the common abbreviation of Ma- 
rianne. 



BURNiS S POEMS. 



139 



Tlie nTerry ploughboy cheers the team, 
Wi' joy tlie tentie seedsman stalks, 

But life to me's a weary dream, 
A dream of ane that never vvauks. 

And maun I still, &c. 

The wanton coot the water skims, 
Amang the leaves the ducklings cry, 

The stately swan majestic swims, 
And every thing is blest but I. 

And viauyi I still, &c. 

The sheep-herd sleeks his faulding slap, 
And owre the moorland whistles shill^ 

Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step, 
I meet him on the dewy hill. 

And maun I still, &c. 

And when the lark 'tween light and dark, 
Blythe wauken's by the daisy's side. 

And mounts and sings on flittering wings, 
A woe-worn ghaisti hameward glide. 

And maun I still, &c . 

Come, Winter, with thine angry howl. 
And raging bend the naked tree ; 

Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul, 
When nature all is sad like me ! 

CHORUS. 

And maun I still on Menie doat. 
And hear the scorn that's in her ee f 

For it's jet J jet black, aii" it's like a hawk, 
An' it winna let a body be.* 

A FRAGMENT. 
Tune — Gillicrankie. 

When Guildford good our pilot stpod, 

And did our helm thraw, man, 
Ae night, at tea, began a plea 

Within America, man : 
Then up they gat the maskin-pat, 

And in the sea did jaw, man; 
An' did nae less, in full congress, 

Than quite refuse our law, man. 

Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes, 

I wat he was na slaw, man ; 
Down Lowrie's burn he took a turn. 

And Carlcton did ca', man : 
But yet, what reck, he, at QuebeCj 

Montgomery-like did fa' man, 
Wi' sword in hand, before his band, 

Araang his en'mies a' man. 

Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage 

Was kept at Boston ha', man ; 
Till Willie Howe took o'er the kno we 

For Philadelphia, man : 

* We cannot presume to alter any of the poems 
of our bard, aid more especially those printed 
under his own direction ; yet it is to be regretted 
that this chorus, which is not of his own compo- 
sition, should be attached to these fine stanzas, 
as it perpetually interrupts thetiai\i of sentiment 
whicli they e.Kcite. Currie. 



Wi' sword an' gun he thought a ain 
Guid Christian blood to draw man ; 

But at JS^etD- York, wi' knife an' fork, 
Sir-loin he hacked sma', man. 

Burgoijnc gaed up, like spur an' whip, 

Till fraser brave did fa', man ; 
Then lost his way, ae misty day, 

In Saratoga shaw, man. 
Cornwallis fought as lang's he's dought, 

An' did the buckskins claw, man ; 
But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save, 

He hung it to the wa', man. 

Then Montague, an' Guildford too, 

Began to fear a fa', man ; 
And Sackville doure, wha stood the stoure, 

The German chief to thraw, man : 
For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk, 

Nae mercy had at a', man ; 
An' Charlie Fox threw by the box, 

An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man. 

Then Rockingham took up the game j 

Till death did on him ca', man ; 
When Shellnirne ineek held up his cheek, 

Conform to gospel law, man; 
St. Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise, 

They did his measures thraw, man ; 
For North and Fox united stocks, 

An' bore him to the wa', man. 

Then clubs and hearts were Charlie' schxien, 

He swept the stakes awa*, man. 
Till the diamond's ace, of Indian race, 

Led him a sa.iT faux pas, man : 
The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads. 

On Chatham's boy did ca', man ; 
An' Scotland drew her pipe, an' blew, 

' Up, Willie, waur them a', man !' 

Behind the throne when Grenville's gone, 

A secret word or twa, man ; 
While slee Dundas arous'd the class 

Be-north the Roman wa', man : 
An' Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graith, 

(Inspired bardies saw, man) 
Wi' kindling eyes cried, * Willie, rise ! 

Would I hae fear'd them a', man .'" 

But, word an' blow, JVorth, Fox, and Co. 

Gowffd Willie like a ba', man 
Till Suthron raise, and coost their claiae 

Behind him in a raw, man ; 
An' Caledon threw by the drone, 

An' did her whittle draw, man; 
An' swoorfu' rude, thro' dirt and blood. 

To make it guid in law, man. 



SONG. 

Tune — Roslin Castle. 

The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, 
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast; 



140 



BURNS S POEMS. 



Yon murky cloud is foul wi' rain, 
I see it driving o'er the plain : 
The hunter now has left the moor, 
The scatter'd coveys meet secure, 
While here I wander, prest with care, 
Along the lonely banks o£ £yr. 

The autumn mourns her rip'ning corn 
By early winter's ravage torn } 
Across her placid, azure sky, 
She sees the scowling tempest fly : 
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave, 
I think upon the stormy wave, 
Where m^ny a danger I must dare, 
Far from the bonnie banks of ^yr. 

'Tis not the surging billows roar, 
'Tis not that fatal, deadly shore ; 
Tho' death in every shape appear, 
The wretched have no more to fear : 
But round my heart the ties are bound, 
That heart transpierc'd with many a wound; 
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, 
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales, 
Her heathy moors and winding vales ; 
The scenes where wretched fancy roves, 
Pursuing past, unhappy loves ! 
Farewell my friends! Farewell my foes! 
My peace with tliese, my love with those — 
The bursting tears my heart declare. 
Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

— ©0©— 
SONG. 

Tune — Gilder ot^. 

From thee, Eliza, I must go. 

And from my native shore ; 
The cruel fates between us throw 

A boundless ocean's roar : 
But boundless oceans, roaring wide, 

Between my love and me, 
They never, never can divide 

My heart and soul from thee. 

Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, 

The maid that I adore ! 
J^ boding voice is in mine ear. 

We part to meet no more > 



But the last throb that heaves my heart. 
While death stands victor by, 

That throb, Eliza, is thy part, 
And thine that latest sigh ! 



THE FAREWELL. 

TO THE BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES'S LODGK, 
TARBOLTON. 

TcKE — Guid night, and joy he wi* you a* / 

Adieu ! a heart-warm fond adieu ! 

Dear brothers of the mystic tie ! 
Ye favour'd, ye enlightened few, 

Companions of my social joy ! 
Tho' I to foreign lands must hie, 

Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba', 
With melting heart and brimfu' eye, 

I'll mind you still, tho' far awa. 

Oft have I met your social band, 

And spent the cheerful, festive mgtA } 
Oft, honour 'd with supreme command, 

Presided o'er the sons of light : 
And by that hieroglyphic bright. 

Which none but craftsmen ever saw ! 
Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write 

Those happy scenes when far awa. 

May freedom, harmony, and love. 

Unite you in the grand design. 
Beneath th' omniscient eye above, 

The glorious architect divine ! 
That you may keep the unerring Untif, 

Still rising by the plummeVs law, 
Till order bright completely shine. 

Shall be my pxay'r when far awa- 

And you, farewell ! whose merits elaim. 

Justly, that highest badge to wear ! 
Heav'n bless your honour'd, noble name» 

To Masonry and Scotia dear ! 
A last request permit me here. 

When yearly ye assemble a'. 
One round, I ask it with a tear. 

To him, the Bard thaVsfar awa. 





SONG. 

Tune — Prepare, my dear brethren, to the ta- 
vern leVsfly, 

No churchman am I for to rail and to write, 
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight. 
No sly man of business contriving a snare, 
For a big-bellied bottle's the whole of my 
care. 

The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow ; 
I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low ; 
But a club of good fellows, like those that 

are here, 
And a bottle like this, are ray glory and care. 

Here passes the squire on his brother — his 

horse ; 
There centum per centum, the cit with his 

purse ; 
But see you the Crown how it waves in the 

air, 
There a big-bellied bottle still eases my care. 

The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die ; 
For sweet consolation to church I did fly ; 
I found that old Solomon proved it fair, 
That the big-bellied bottle's a cure for all 
care. 

I once was persuaded a venture to make ; 
A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck ; 
But the pursy old landlord just waddled up 

stairs, 
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. 

*- Life's cares they are comforts,'* — a maxim 

laid down 
By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore 

the black gown ; 

* Young,*s Night Thoughts. 



And faith, I agree with th' old prig to a hair. 
For a big-bellied bottle's a heaven of care. 

A Stanza added in a Mason Lodge. 

Then fill up a bump,er, and make it o'erflow. 
And honours masonic prepare for to throw ; 
May every true brother of the compass and 

square 
Have a big-bellied bottle when harr&ss'd 

with care. 

AULD LANG SYNE. 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 

And never brought to min' ? 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot^ 

And days o' lang syne ? 

CHORUS. 

For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne, 
We'll tak a cup d" kindness yet 

For auld lang syne ? 

We twa hae run about the braes, 

And pu'd the gowans fine j 
But we've wander 'd mony a weary foot 

Sin auld lang syne. 

For auld, &c. 

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, 

From mornin sun till dine : 
But seas between us braid hae roar'd 

Sin auld lang syne. 

For auld, &c. 

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, 

And gie's a hand o' thine ; 
And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught, 

Fox auld lang syne. 

For auld, &c. 



142 



BURNS's POEMS. 



And surely ye '11 be your pint-stowp, 

And surely I'll be mine ; 
And we'll tak' a cup o' kindneps yet 

For auld lang syne. 

For auld, &c. 



BANNOCKBURN. 

ROBERT BRUCE's ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce lias aften led ; 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to glorious victorie. 

Now's the day, and novv's the hour ; 
See the front o' battle lower ; 
See approach proud Edward's power- 
Edward ! chains and slaverie ! 

Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 

Traitor! coward! turn and flee ! 

Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, | 
Free-man stand, or free-man fa'.' 
Caledonian ! on wi' me ! 

By oppression's woes and pains ! 
By your sons in servile chains! 
We will drain our dearest veins. 
But they shall be— shall be free ! 

Lay the proud usurpers low ! , 

Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow I 
Forward ! let us do, or die ! 

FOR A^ THAT AND A' THAT. 

Is there, for honest poverty. 

That hangs his head, and a' that! 
The coward-slave, we pass him by, 

We dare be poor for a' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Our toils obscure, and a' that, 
The rank is but the guinea's stamp. 

The man's the gowd for a' that. 

What tho' on hamely fare we dine. 

Wear hodden gray and a' that ; 
Oie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 

A man's a man for a' that ; 
For a' that, and a' that ; 

Their tinsel show, and ^' that ; 
"The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, 

Is king o' men for a' that. 

Ye see yon birkie ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that ; 

Tho' hundreds worship at his word, 
He's but a coof for a' that : 



For a' that, and a' that, 

His riband, star, and a' that, 

The man of independent mind, 
He looks and laughs at a' that j 

A prince can mak a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, and a' that ; 
But an honest man's aboon his might, 

Guid faith he mauna fa' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their dignities and a' that. 
The pith o' sense and pride o' worth, 

Are higher ranks than a' that. 

Then let us pray that come it may. 

As come it will for a' that, 
That sense and worth o'er a' the earth, 

May bear the gree, and a' that. 
For a' that^ and a' that, 

It's coming yet, for a' that. 
That man to man, the warld o'er, 

Shall brothers be for a' that. 

DAINTIE DAVIE. 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 
To deck her gay, green spreading bowers ; 
And now comes in my happy hours, 
To wander wi' my Davie. 

CHORUS. 

Meet me on the warlock knowe, 
Dainty Davie, dainty Davie, 

There III spend the day wV you, 
My ain dear dainty Davie. 

The crystal waters round us fa', 
The merry birds are lovers a'. 
The scented breezes round us blaw, 
A-wandering wi' my Davie. 

Meet me, <^c. 

When purple morning starts the hare, 
To steal upon her early fare. 
Then thro' the dews I will repair, 
To meet my faithfu' Davie. 

Meet me, ^c. 

When day, expiring in the west. 
The curtain draws o' nature's rest, 
I flee to his arms I lo'e best. 
And that's my ain dear Davie. 

Meet vie, ^x. 



HOW CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS* 
Tune — John Anderson my jo. 

How cruel are the parents 

Who riches only prize, 
And to the wealthy booby 

Poor woman sacrifice. 

* Altered from an old English Song. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



143 



Meanwhile the haplestj daughter 

Has but a choice of strife ; 
To shun a tyrant father's hate, 

Become a wretched wife. 
The ravening hawk pursuing, 

The trembling dove thus flies, 
To shun impelling ruin 

Awhile her pinions tries ; 
Till of escape despairing. 

No shelter or retreat, 
She trusts the ruthless falconer, 

And drops beneath his feet. 

TO MR. CUNiNlNGHAM. 
TuNK — The hopeless Lover. 

Now spring has clad the groves in green, 

And strew'd the lea wi' flowets ; 
The furrow'd, waving corn is seen 

Rejoice in fostering showers ; 
While ilka thing in nature join 

Their sorrows to forego, 
O why thus all alone are mine 

The weary steps of wo ! 
The trout within yon wimplin burn 

Glides swift, a silver dart, 
And safe beneath the shady thorn 

Defies the angler's art : 
My life was once that careless stream, 

That wanton trout was I ; 
But love, wi' unrelenting beam, 

Has scorch'd my fountain dry. 
The little flow'ret's peaceful lot, 

In yonder cliff that grows. 
Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot, 

Nae ruder visit knows, 
Was mine ; till love has o'er me past, 

And blighted a' my bloom, 
And now beneath the withering blast 

My youth and joy consume. 
The waken'd lav 'rock warbling springs, 

And climbs the early sky, 
Winnowing blithe her dewy wings 

In morning's rosy eye ; 
As little reckt I sorrow's power, 

Until the flowery snare 
O' witching love, in luckless hour, 

Made me the thrall o' care. 

O had my fate been Greenland snows, 

Or Afric's burning zone, 
Wi' man and nature leagu'd my foes, 

So Peggy ne'er I'd known ! 
The wretch whose doom is, " hope nae mair," 

What tongue his woes can tell ! 
Within whose bosom, save despair, 

Nae kinder spirits dwell. 



WHY, WHY TELL THY LOVER. 
Tune — The Caledonian Hunt's Delight. 

Why, why tell thy lover, 

Bliss he never must enjoy .'' 
Why, why undeceive him, 

And give all his hopes tlie lie r 



O why, while fancy, raptur'd, slumbers, 
Chloris, Chloris all the theme ! 

Why, why wouldst thou, cruel, 
Wake thy lover from his dream .'' 



CLARINDA. 

Clarinda, mistress of my soUl, 

The measur'd time is run ! 
The wretch beneath the dreary pole 

So marks his latest sun. 

To what dark cave of frozen night 

Shall poor Sylvander hie ; 
Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, 

The sun of all his joy ? 

We part — but by these precious drops 

That 611 thy lovely eyes ! 
No other light shall guide my steps 

Till thy bright beams arise. 

She the fair sun of all her sex, 

Has blest my glorious day : 
And shall a glimmering planet fix 

My worship to its ray i' 

ON 

THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR, 

BETWEEN THE DUKE OF ARGYLL AND THE 
EARL OF MAR. 

Tune — The Cameronian Rant. 

" O cam ye here the fight to shun. 
Or herd the sheep wi' me, man .-' 
Or were ye at the Sherra-muir, 
And did the battle see, man.^" 
I saw the battle, sair and tough, 
And reeking-red ran mony a sheugh. 
My heart, for fear, gae sough for sough, 
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds 
O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds, 
Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man. 

The red-coat lads, wi' black cockades, 

To meet them werena slaw, man ; 
They rush'd and push'd, and blude outgush'd, 

And mony a bouk did fa', man : 
And great Argyll led on his files, 
I wat they glanced twenty miles : 
They hack'd and hash'd while broad-swords 

clash'd. 
And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and smash'd, 
Till fey men died awa, man. 

But had you seen the philibegs. 

And skyrin tartan trews, man, 
When in the teeth they dar'd our wliigs, 

And covenant true blues, man ; 
In lines extended lang and large, 
When bayonets oppos'd the targe, 
And thousands hasten'd to the charge, 
Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sTieatli 
Drew blades o' death, till, out o' breath, 

They fled like frighted doos, man. 



144 



BURNS S POEMS. 



« O how deil, Tam, can that be true ? 

The chase gaed frae the north, man : 
t saw mysel, they did pursue 

The horsemen back to Forth, man *, 
And at Dumblane, in my ain sight. 
They took the brig wi' a' their might, 
And straught to Stirling wing'd their flight; 
But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut, 
And mony a huntit poor red-coat. 

For fear amaist did swarf, man." 

My siste Kate cam up the gate 

Wi' crowdie unto me, man ; 
She swore she saw some rebels run 

Frae Perth unto Dundee, man : 
Their left-hand general had nae skill, 
The Angus lads had nae guid-will 
^hat day their neebors' blood to spill ; 
For fear, by foes, that they should lose 
Their cogs o' brose — all crying woes, 

And so it goes you see, man. 

They've lost some gallant gentlemen 
Amangthe Highland clans, man. 

I fear my lord Panmure is slain, 
Or fadlen in whiggish hands, man : 

Now wad ye sing this double fight, 

Some fell for wrang, and some for right ; 

But mony bade the world guid-night ; 

Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, 

By red claymores, and muskets' knell, 

Wi' dying yell, the tories fell, 
And wnigs to hell did flee, man. 



THE GALLANT WEAVER. 

Tune — The Auld Wife ayontthe Jire. 

Where Cart rins rowin to the sea, 
By mony a flower and spreading tree, 
There lives a lad, the lad for me, 
He is a gallant weaver. 

Oh had I wooers aught or nine, 
They gied me rings and ribbands fine : 
And I was fear'd my heart would tine, 
And I gied it to the weaver. 

My daddie sign'd my tocher-band, 
To gie the lad that has the land. 
But to my heart I'll add my hand, 
And gie it to the weaver. 

While birds rejoice in leafy bowers ; 
While bees rejoice in opening flowers ; 
While corn grows green in simmer showers, 
I'll love my gallant weaver. 



THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS. 
Tune — Push about the jorum. 

April, 1795. 

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat ? 

Then let the loons beware. Sir, 
There's wooden walls upon our seas. 

And volunteers on shore, Sir. 



The Nith shall run to Corsincon, 

And Criffel sink in Solway, 
Ere we permit a foreign foe 

On British ground to rally ! 

Fall de rally S^e, 

O let us not like snarling tykes 

In wrangling be divided ; 
Till slap came in an unco loon 

And wi' a rung decide it. 
Be Britain still to Britain true, 

Amang oursels united ) 
For never but by British hands 

Maun British wrangs be righted. 

Fall de rail, i^c. 

The kettle o' the kirk and state. 

Perhaps a claut may fail in't j 
But deil a foreign tinkler loun 

Shall ever ca' a nail in't. 
Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought, 

And wha wad dare to spoil it ; 
By heaven the sacrilegious dog 

Shall fuel be to boil it. 

Fall de rally ^c. 

The wretch that wad a tyrant own, 

And the wretch bis true-born brother, 
Who wad set the mob aboon the throne. 

May they be damn'd together ! 
Who will not sing, " God save the King," 

Shall hang as high's the steeple j 
But while we sing " God save the King," 

We'll ne'er forget the People. 

Fall de rally &/-C. 



O WHA IS SHE THAT LO'ES MB. 
Tune — Morag. 

O wha is she that lo'es me, 
And has my heart a-keeping ? 

O sweet is she that lo'es me, 
As dews o' simmer weeping, 
In tears the rose-buds steeping. 

CHORUS. 

that's the lassie o' my heart, 

My lassie ever dearer ; 
thaVs the queen o' womankindj 

And ne'er a anc to peer her. 

If thou shalt meet a lassie, 

In grace and beauty charming, 

That e'en thy chosen lassie. 

Ere while thy breast sae warmings 
Had ne'er sic powers alarming ; 
O that's, «^c. 

If thou hadst heard her talking, 
And thy attentions plighted. 

That ilka body talking, 
But her by thee is slighted, 
And thou art all delighted ; 
that's, ^c. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



145 



trthou hast met this fair one ; 

When frae her thou hast parted, 
If every other fair one, 

But her, thou hast deserted. 

And thou art broken-hearted ; — 
O that's, ^c. 



WRITTEN IN A WRAPPER, 

ENCLOSING A LETTER TO CAPT. GROSE, TO BE 
LEFT WITH MR. CARDONNEL, ANTIQUARIAN. 

Tune — Sir John Malcolm. 

Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose ? 

JgOj ^ ago. 
If he'B amang his friends or foes ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he South, or is he North ? 

Igo, fy ago. 
Or drowned in the river Forth .'' 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he slain by Highland bodies ? 

Igo, ^ ago, 
And eaten like a weather-haggis ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he to Abram's bosom gane ? 

Igo, 8^ ago, 
Or haudin Sarah by the wame ? 

Iram,, coram, dago. 

Where'er he be, the Lord be near him ! 

Igo, fy ago, 
As for the deil, he daurna steer him. 

Iram, coram, dago. 

But please transmit th' enclosed letter, 

Igo, ^ ago, 
Which will oblige your humble debtor. 

Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye hae auld stancs in store, 

Igo, ^ ago. 
The very stanes that Adam bore. 

/mwi, toram, dago. 

So may ye get in glad possession, 

Igo, 4^ ago, 
The coins o' Satan's coronation ! 

Iram, coram, dago. 

— ©©©— 

O, ONCE I LOV'D A BONNIE LASS.' 

Tune — / am a man unmarried. 

O, once I lov'd a bonnie lass, 

Ay, and I love her still, 
And whilst that virtue warms my breast 

I'll love my handsome Nell. 

Fal lal de rat, ^c. 

As bonnie lassies I hae seen, 

And mony full as braw, 
But for a modest gracefu' mien 

The like I never saw. 

* This was our Poet's first attempt. 

19 



A bonnie lass, I will confess, 

Is pleasant to the ee, 
But without some better qualities 

She's no a lass for me. 

But Nelly's looks arc blithe and sweet. 

And what is best of a', 
Her reputation is complete, 

And fair without a flaw. 

She dresses aye sae clean and neat, 

Both decent and genteel : 
And then there's something in her gait 

Gars ony dress look weel. 

A gaudy dress and gentle air 
May slightly touch the heart, 

But it's innocence and modesty 
That polishes the dart. 

'Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 
'Tis this enchants my soul ! 

For absolutely in my breast 
She reigns without control. 

Fal lal d€ ral, fyc. 



I'LL AYE CA' IN BY YON TOWN. 

I'll aye ca* in by yon town, 
And by yon garden green again ; 

I'll aye ca' in by yon town, 
And see my bonnie Jean again. 

There's nane sail ken, there's nane sail guess, 
What brings me back the gate again. 

But she, my fairest faithfu' lass. 
And stownlinswe sail meet again. 

She'll wander by the aiken tree. 

When trystin-time draws near again • 

And when her lovely form I see, 
O haith, she's doubly dear again ! 



YOUNG JOCKEY. 

Young Jockey was the blithest lad 

In a' our town or here awa ; 
Fu' blithe he whistled at the gaud,* 

Fu' lightly danc'd he in the ha' ! 
He roos'd my een sac bonnie blue. 

He roos'd my waist sae genty sma' ; 
An a' my heart came to my mou. 

When ne'er a body heard or saw. 

My Jockey toils upon the plain. 

Thro' wind and weet, thro' frost and snaw ; 
And o'er the lee I look fu' fain 

When Jockey's owsen hameward ca'. 
An* aye the night comes round again, 

WJien in his arms he taks me a' ; 
An' aye he vows he'll be my ain 

As lang's he has a breath to draw«. 

* The Gauc^—atthe Plough, 



146 



BURNS S POEMS. 



WHISTLE O'ER THE LAVE O'T. 

First when Maggy was my care. 
Heaven, T thougnt, was in her air ; 
Now we're married — spier nae mair — 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 
Meg was meek, and Meg was mild, 
Bonnie Meg was nature's child — 
Wiser men than me's beguil'd; — 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 

How we live, my Meg and me, 
How we love and how we 'gree, 
I carena by how few may see — 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 
Wha I wish were maggots' meat, 
Dish'd up in her winding sheet, 
I could write — but Meg maun see't — 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 

MTHERSON'S FAREWELL. 

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, 

The wretch's destiny ! 
M'Pherson's time will not be long, 

On yonder gallows tree. 

CHORUS. 

Sae rantingly, sae loantonly, 

Sae dcnintingly gacd he ; 
He play'd a spring and danc'd it rounds 

Below the gallows tree. 



Oh, what is death but parting breath .^— 

On mony a bloody plain 
I've dared his face, and in this place 

I scorn him yet again ! 
Sae rantingly, ^c. 

Untie these bands from off my handa, 

And bring to me my sword ; 
And there's no man in all Scotland, 

But I'll brave him at a word. 
Sae rantingly y %fc. 

I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife ; 

I die by treachery : 
It burns my heart I must depart 

And not avenged be. 
Sae rantingly J 8^c, 

Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright, 

And all beneath the sky ! 
May coward shame distain his name, 

The wretch that dares not die ! 
Sae rantingly y ^c. 

A BOTTLE AND FRIEND. 

Here's a bottle and an honest friend ! 

What wad ye wish for mair, man.-* 
Wha kens, before his life may end, 

What his share may be of care, man .' 
Then catch the moments as they fly, 

And use them as ye ought, man : — 
Believe me, happiness is shy, 

And comes not aye when sought, man. 








HIGHLAND MARY. 
Tune — Katharine Ogic. 

Ye banks and braes and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfald her robes, 

And there the langest tarry ; 
For there I took the last far ewe el 

O' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk. 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 
As underneath their fragrant shade, 

I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me, as light and life. 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And, pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder ; 
But Oh ! fell death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early ! 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay. 

That wraps my Highland Mary I 

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ! 
And closed for aye the sparkling glance, 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
And mould'ring now in silent dust, 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly 1 
But still within my bosom's core, 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 



ILL KISS THEE YET. 
Tune — The Braes o' Balquhidder. 

CHORUS. 

ni kiss thee yet, yet, 

An' ni kiss the o'er again, 
An' ril kiss thee yet, yet, 
V My bonnie Peggy Alison ! 

Ilk care and fear, when thou art near, 
I ever mair defy them, O ; 

Young kings upon their hansel throne 
Are no sae blest as I am, O ! 
ril kiss thee, <^c. 

When in ray arms, wi' a' thy charms, 
I clasp my countless treasure, O ; 

I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share, 
Than sic a moment's pleasure, O ! 
ril kiss thee, ^c. 

And by thy e'en sae bonnie blue, 
I swear I'm thine for ever, O ; — 

And on thy lips I seal my vow, 
And break it shall I never, O ! 
ril kiss thee, ^c, 

ON CESSNOCK BANKS. 
Tune — Jfhe he a Butcherneat and trim. 

On Cessnock banks there lives a lass ; 

Could I describe her shape and mien ; 
The graces of her weel-far'd face. 

And the glancin' of her sparklin' een. 

She's fresher than the morning dawn 
When rising Phoebus first is seen, 

When dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn ; 
An' she's twa glaucir/ sparklin' een- 



148 



BURNS S POEMS. 



She's stately like yon youthful ash 1 

That grows the cowslip braes between, 

And shoots its head above each bush ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparkliii' een. 

She's spotless as the flow 'ring thorn 
With flow'rs so white and leaves so green, 

When purest in the dewy morn ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 

Her looks are like the sportive lamb, 
When flow'ry May adorns the scene, 

That wantons round its bleating dam ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 

Her hair is like the curling mist 

That shades the mountain-side at e'en, 

When flow'r-reviving rains are past ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

Her forehead's like the show'ry bow, 
When shining sunbeams intervene 

And gild the distant mountain's brow ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 

Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush 
That sings on Cessnock banks unseen, 

While his mate sits nestling in the bush ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 

Her lips are like the cherries ripe, 
That sunny walls from Boreas screen. 

They tempt the taste and charm the sight j 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 

Her teeth are like a flock of sheep, 
Willi fleeces newly washen clean. 

That slowly mount the rising steep ; 
An's she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 

Her breath is like the fragrant breeze 
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean, 

When Phoebus sinks behind the seas ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 

But it's not her air, her form, her face, 
Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen. 

But the mind that shines in every grace, 
An' chiefly in her sparklin' een. 

WAE IS MY HEART. 

Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my ee ; 
Lang, lang, joy's been a stranger to me: 
Forsaken and friendless my burden I bear, 
And the sweet voice o' pity ne'er sounds in 
my ear. 

Love, thou hast pleasures ; and deep I hae 

loved ; 
Love, thou hast sorrows; and sair hae I 

proved : 
But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my 

breast, 
I can feel its throbbings will soon be at rest. 

O if I were where happy I hae been ; 
Down by yon stream and yon bonnic castle 
green ; 



For there he is wand'ring and musing on m«, 
Wha wad soon dry the tear frae Phnlis's ee- 

POWERS CELESTIAL. 

Powers celestial, whose protection 

Ever guards the virtuous fair, 
While in distant climes I wander, 

Let my Mary be your care : 
Let her form sae fair and faultless, 

Fair and faultless as your own ; 
Let my Mary's kindred spirit 

Draw your choicest influence down. 

Make the gales you waft around her 

Soft and peaceful as her breast ; 
Breathing in the breeze that fans her, 

Sooth her bosom into rest : 
Guardian angels, O protect her. 

When in distant lands I roam ; 
To realms unknown while fate exiles me, 

Make her bosom still my home.* 



THE HEATHER WAS BLOOMING. 

The heather was blooming, the meadows 

were mawn. 
Our lads gaed a hunting, ae day at the dawn, 
O'er moors and o'er mosses and mony a glen, 
At length they discover'dabonny moor-hen. 

/ red you beware at the huntings young 

men; 
I red you beware at the hunting, young 

men; 
Talc some on the wing, and some as they 

spring, 
But cannily steal on a bonnie moor-hen. 

Sweet brushing the dew from the brown hea- 
ther bells, 

Her colours betray'dher on yon mossy fells ; 

Her plumage outlustred the pride o' the 
spring. 

And O ! as she wantoned gay on the wing. 

/ red, «fec. 

Auld Phffibus himsel, as he peep'd o'er the 

hill. 
In spite at her plumage he tried his skill ; 
He levell'd his rays where she bask'd on the 

brae — 
His rays were outshone, and but mark'd 

where she lay. 

/ red, &c. 

They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill, 
The best of our lads wi' the best o' their 

skill ; 
But still as the fairest she sat in their sight, 
Then, whirr I she was over, a mile at a 

flight.— 

J red, &c. 



* Probably written on Highland Mary, on the 
eve of the Poet's departure to the West Indies. 



BURNS a POEMS. 



149 



YOUNG PEGGY. 
Tune — Last time I cam o'er the muir. 

Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass, 

Her blush is like the morning, 
The rosy dawn, the springing grass, 

With early gems adorning : 
Her eyes outshine the radiant beams 

That gild the passing shower, 
' And glitter o'er the crystal streams, 

And cheer each fresh'ning flower. 

Her lips more than the cherries bright, 

A richer dye has grac'd them, 
They charm th' admiring gazer's sight, 

And sweetly tempt to taste them : 
Her smile is as the ev'ning mild, 

When feather'd pairs are courting. 
And little lambkins wanton wild, 

In playful bands disporting. 

Were Fortune lovely Peggy's foe. 

Such sweetness would relent her, 
As blooming Spring unbends the brow, 

Of surly, savage Winter. 
Detraction's eye no aim can gain 

Her winning powers to lessen ; 
And fretful envy grins in vain. 

The poison'd tooth to fasten. 

Ye Pow'rs of Honour, Love, and Truth, 

From every ill defend her ; 
Inspire the highly favour'd youth 

The destinies intend her ; 
Still fan the sweet connubial flame 

Responsive in each bosom ; 
And bless the dear parental name 

With many a filial blossom.* 



THERE WAS A LAD. 

Tune — Dainty Davie. 

There was a lad was born at Kylet, 
But what'n a day o' what'n a style 
I doubt it's hardly worth the while 
To be sae nice wi' Robin. 

Robin was a rovin" Boy, 
Rantin* rovin', raniin' rovin' ; 

Robin was a rovin' Boy^ 
Rantin' rovin' Robin. 

Our monarchs hindmost year but ane 
Was five and twenty days begun, 
'Twas then a blast o' Janwar win' 
Blew hansel in on Robin. 

The gossip keeikt in his loof, 
Quo' scho wha lives will see the proof, 
This waly boy will be nae coof, 
I think we'll ca' him Robin. • 

* This was one of the Poet's earliest composi- 
tions. It is copied from a MS. book, which he 
had before his first publication. 

I Kyle—dL diotrict of Ayrshire. 



He'll hae misfortunes great and sma'. 
But aye a heart aboon them a' ; 
He'll be a credit to us a', 
We'll a' be proud o' Robin. 

But sure as three times three mak nine, 
I see by ilka score and line, 
This chap will dearly like our kin', 
So leeze me on thee, Robin. 

Guid faith, quo' scho, I doubt you, Sir, 
Ye gar the lasses * « * » 
But twenty fauts ye may hae waur, 
So blessings on thee, Robin! 

Robin teas a rovin' Boy, 
Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin' ; 

Robin was a rovin' Boy, 
Rantin' rovin' Robin. 



IMITATION OF AN OLD JACOBITE 
SONG. 

By yon castle wa', at the close of the day, 
I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was gray ; 
And as he was singing, the tears fast down 

came — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes 

hame. 

The church is in ruins, the state is in jars. 
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars ; 
We darena weel say't, but we ken wha's to 

blame — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes 

hame. 

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, 
And now I greet round their green beds in 

the yerd; 
It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld 

dame — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes 

hame. 

Now life is a burden that bows me down, 
Sin' I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown ; 
But till my last moment my words are the 

same — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes 

hame. 

— Q®©— 

TO MARY. 
Tune — Ewe-bughts, Marion. 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 

And leave auld Scotia's shore ? 
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 

Across the Atlantic's roar ? 

O sweet grows the lime and the orange^ 

And the apple on the pine ; 
But a' the charms o' the Indies 

Can never equal thine. 



150 



BURNS S POEMS. 



I hae sworn by the heavens to my Mary, 
I hae sworn by the heavens to be true ; 

And sae may the heavens forget me, 
Wh€n I forget my vow. 

O plight me your faith, my Mary, 
And plight me your lily-white hand ; 

O plight me your faith, my Mary, 
Before I leave Scotia's strand. 

We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, 

In mutual affection to join, 
And curst be the cause that shall part us ! 

The hour, and the moment o' time !* 



MARY MORISON. 
Tune — Bide ye yet. 

Mary, at thy window be, 

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour ! 
Those smiles and glances let me see, 

That make the miser's treasure poor : 
How blithely wad I bid the stoure, 

A weary slave frae sun to sun j 
Could I the rich reward secure, 

The lovely Mary Morison. 

Yestreen, when to the trembling string 
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', 

To thee my fancy took its wing, 
I sat, but neither heard or saw : 

Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, 
And yon the toast of a' the town, 

1 sigh'd, and said amang them a', 

" Ye arena Mary Morison." 



* This song Mr. Thompson has not adopted in 
his collection. It deserves, however, to be pre- 
served. 



O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ? 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

Whase only faut is loving thee ? 
If love for love thouwiltna gie, 

At least be pity to me shown ! 
A thought ungentle canna be 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 



BONNIE LESLEY. 

Tune — The collier^ sbonnie dochter, 

O saw ye bonnie Lesley 

As she gaed o'er the border ? 

She's gane, like Alexander, 
To spread her conquests farther. 

To see her is to love her, 
And love but her for ever ; 

For Nature made her what she is, 
And ne'er made sic anither ! 

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 
Thy subjects we, before thee : 

Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 
The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The Deil he cou'dna scaith thee, 
Or aught that wad belang thee : 

He'd look into thy bonnie face. 
And say, " I canna wrang thee." 

The Powers aboon will tent thee ; 

Misfortune sha'na steer thee ; 
Thour't like themselves sae lovely, 

That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. 

Return again, fair Lesley, 

Return to Caledonie 1 
That we may brag, we hae a lass 

There's nane again sae bonnie. 





WILD WAR'S DEADLY BLAST. 
Tune— rAe Mill Mill 0. 

When wild war's deadly blast was blawn, 

And gentle peace returning, 
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, 

And mony a widow mourning : 
I left the lines and tented field, 

Where lang I'd been a lodger, 
My humble knapsack a' my wealth, 

A poor and honest sodger- 

A leal, light heart was in my breast, 

My hand unstain'd wi' plunder ; 
And for fair Scotia hame again 

I cheery on did wander. 
I thought upon the banks o' Coil, 

I thought upon my Nancy, 
I thought upon the witching smile 

That caught my youthful fancy. 

At length I reach'd the bonnie glen, 

Where early life I sported; 
I pass'd the mill, and trysting thorn, 

Where Nancy aft I courted : 
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid, 

Down by her mother's dwelling ! 
And turn'd me round to hide the flood 

That in my een was swelling. 

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, sweet lass. 

Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom, 
O ! happy, happy may he be. 

That's dearest to thy bosom ! 
My purse is light, I've far to gang, 

And fain wad be thy lodger ; 
I've serv'd my king and country lang— 

Take pity on a sodger. 

Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me, 
And lovelier was than ever : 

Quo' she, a sodger anco I lo'ed, 
Forget him shall I never : 



Our humble cot, and hamely fair, 

Ye freely shall partake it, 
That gallant badge, the dear cockacCy 

Ye'er welcome for the sake o't. 

She gaz'd — she redden 'd like a ros6 — 

Syne pale like ony lily ', 
She sank within my arms, and cried, 

Art thou my ain dear Willie ? 
By him who made yon sun and sky. 

By whom true love's regarded, 
I am the man ; and thus may stLl 

True lovers be rewarded. 

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hanie, 

And find thee still true-hearted ; 
Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love, 

And mair we'se ne'er be parted. 
Quo' she, my grandsire left me gowd, 

A mailen plenish'd fairly ; 
And come, my faithfu' sodger lad, 

Thou'rt welcome to it dearly ! 

For gold the merchant ploughs the main, 

The farmer ploughs the manor ; 
But glory is the sodger's prize ; 

The sodger's wealth is honour : 
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise. 

Nor count him as a stranger, 
Remember he's his country's stay 

In day and hour of danger. 

— @©©— 

AMANG THE TREES. 

Tune — The King of France j he rade a Race. 

Amang the trees where humming bees 
At buds and flowers were hinging, O 

Auld Caledon drew out her drone, 
And to her pipe was singing ; O— 



152 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



'Twas pibroch, sang, strathspey, or reels, 
She dh I'd them afffu' clearly, O 

When there cam a yell o' foreign squeels, 
That dang her tapsalteerie, O — 

The capon craws and queer ha ha's, 

They made our lugs grow eerie ; O 
The hungry bike did scrape and pike 

Till we were wae and weary : O — 
But a royal ghaist wha ance was cas'd 

A prisoner aughteen year awa, 
He fir'd a fiddler in the North 

That dang them tapsalteerie, O. 



MY FATHER WAS A FARMER * 
Tune — The Weaver and his Shuttle, 0. 

My Father was a Farmer upon the Carrick 
border, O 

And carefully he bred me in decency and or- 
der, O 

He bade me act a manly part, though I had 
ae'er a farthing, O 

For without an honest manly heart, no man 
■was worth regarding, O. 

Then oul into the world my course I did de- 
teimine, O 

The' to b? rich was not my wish, yet to be 
great was charming, O 

My talents they were not the worst ; nor yet 
my education: O 

Resolv'd "was I at least to try to mend my si- 
tuation, O. 

In many a vay, and vain essay, I courted for- 
tunes favour J O 

Some cause unseen still stept between, to 
frustiute each endeavour ; O 

Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd ; some- 
times by friends forsaken ; O 

And when my hope was at the top, I still 
was worst mistaken, O. 

Then sore harrassed, and tir'd at last, with 

fortune's vain delusion ; O 
I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and 

came to this conclusion ; O 
The {)ast was bad, and the future hid j its 

good or ill untried ; O 
But the present hour was in my pow'r, and 

so 1 would enjoy it, O. 

No help, nor hope, nor view had I ; nor per- 
» son to befriend me ; O 

So I must toil, and sweat and broil, and la- 
bour to sustain me, O 

To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my fa- 
ther bred me early ; O 

For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match 
for fortune fairly, O. 



* This song is a wild rhapsody, miserably de- 
ficient in versification, but as the sentiments are 
the genuine feelings of my heart, for that reason 
I have a particular pleasure in conning it over. 
Burns' s fteligues, p. 329, 



Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro' 
life I'm doom'd to wander, O 

Till down my weary bones I lay in everlast- 
ing slumber ; O 

No view nor care, but shun whate'er might 
breed mo pain or sorrow : O 

I live to-day, as well's I may, regardless of 
to-morrow, O. 

But cheerful still, I am as well as a monarch 

in a palace, O 
Tho' fortune's frown still hunts me down, 

with all her wonted malice ; O 
I make indeed my daily bread, but ne'er can 

make it farther ; O 
But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much 

regard her, O. 

When sometimes by my labour I earn a little 
money, O 

Some unforeseen misfortune comes general- 
ly upon me ; O 

Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my 
good-natur'd folly j O 

But come what will I've sworn it still, I'll 
ne'er be melancholy, 0. 

All you who follow wealth and power with 
unremitting ardour, O 

The more in this you look for bliss, you leave 
your view the farther ; O 

Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations 
to adore you, O 

A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will pre- 
fer before you, O. 



A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE 
DEATH OF HER SON. 

Tone — Finlayston House. 

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, 

And pierc'd my darling's heart ; 
And with him all the joys are fled 

Life can to me impart. 
By cruel hands the sapling drops, 

In dust dishonour'd laid : 
So fell the pride of all my hopes, 

My age's future shade. 

The mother linnet in the brake 

Bewails her ravish'd young j 
So I, for my lost darling's sake. 

Lament the live-day long. 
Death, oft I've fear'd thy ftital blow, 

Now, fond I bare my breast, 
O, do thou kindly lay me low 

With him I love, at rest! 



FAREWELL TO AYRSHIRE. 

Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure. 
Scenes that former thoughts renew. 

Scenes of wo and scenes ofpleasure, 
Now a sad and last adiew ! 



BURNS S POEMS. 



153 



Bonny Doon, sae sweet and gloamin, 
Fare thee weel before 1 gang ! 

Bonny Doon, where, early roaming, 
First I weav'd the rustic sang ! 

Bowers, adieu, where Love, decoying, 
First inthrall'd this heart o' mine. 

There the saftest sweets enjoying, — 
Sweets that Mem'ry ne'er shall tine ! 

Friends, so near my bosom ever. 
Ye hae render'd moments dear ; 

But, alas ! when forc'd to sever, 
Then the stroke, O how severe ! 

Friends ! that parting tear reserve it, 
Tho' 'tis doubly dear to me ! 

Could I think I did deserve it, 
How much happier would I be ! 

Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure, 
Scenes that former thoughts renew, 

Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure, 
Now a sad and last adieu ! 

FRAGMENT. 
Tune — / had a horse and I had nae mair. 

When first I came to Stewart Kyle, 

My mind it wasna steady, 
Where'er I gaed, where'er I rade, 

A mistress still I had aye : 

But when I came roun' by Mauchline town, 

Not dreadin' ony body, 
My heart was caught before I thought, 

And by a Mauchline lady. 



FRAGMENT. 
Tune — Gallawater. 



Altho' my bed were in yon rauir, 
Amang the heather, in my plaidie, 

Yet happy, happy would I be, 
Had I my dear Montgomerie's Peggy. 

When o'er the hill beat surly storms. 
And winter nights were dark and rainy ; 

I'd seek some dell, and in my arms 
I'd shelter dear Montgomerie's Peggy. 

Were I a Baron proud and high. 
And horse and servants waiting ready, 

Then a 'twad gie o' joy to me, 
The sharin't wi' Montgomerie's Peggy. 



FRAGMENT. 



O raging fortune's withering blast 
Has laid my leaf full low ! O 

O raging fortune's withering blast 
Has laid tay leaf full low I O. 

20 



My stem was fair, my bud was green, 
My blossom sweet did blow ; O 

The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild, 
And made my branches grow } O. 

But luckless fortune's northern storms 

Laid a' my blossoms low, O 
But luckless fortune's northern storms 

Laid a' my blossoms low, O. 

ON A BANK OF FLOWERS. 
Tune — On a bank of flowers. 

On a bank of flowers, in a summer day, 

For summer lightly drest, 
The youthful blooming Nelly lay. 

With love and sleep opprest ; 

When Willie, wand 'ring thro' the wood. 
Who for her favour oft had sued ; 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd, 
And trembled where he stood. 

Her closed eyes, like weapons sheath'd, 

Were seal'd in soft repose ; 
Her lips, still as she fragrant breath'd, 

It richer dy'd the rose. 

The springing lilies sweetly prest. 
Wild, wanton kiss'd her rival breast ; 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd, 
His bosom ill at rest. 

Her robes, light waving in the breeze, 

Her tender limbs embrace ! 
Her lovely form, her native ease, 

All harmony and grace ! 

Tumultuous tides his pulses roll, 
A faltering ardent kiss he stole ; 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd. 
And sigh'd his very soul. 

As flies the partridge from the brake, 

On fear-inspired wings ; 
So Nelly, starting, half awake, 

Away affrighted springs : 

But Willie follow'd, — as he should. 
He overtook her in the wood : 
He vow'd, he pray'd, he found the maid 
Forgiving all, and good. 



SLOW SPREADS THE GLOOM. 

Tune — Savourna Delish. 

Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires, 
The sun from India's shore retires : 
To Evan banks with temp'rate ray, 
Home of my youth, he leads the day. 

Oh banks to me for ever dear ! 
Oh stream, whose murmurs still I hear'. 
All, all my hopes of bliss reside 
Where Evan mingles with the Clyde. 



154 



BURNS S POEMS. 



And she, in simple beauty drcst, 
Whose image lives within my breast ; 
Who trembling heard my parting sigh, 
And long pursued me with her eye : 

Does she, with heart unchang'd as mine, 
Ofl in the vocal bowers recline ? 
Or, where yon grot o'erhangs the tide. 
Muse while the Evan seeks the Clyde ? 

Ye lofty banks that Evan bound. 
Ye lavish woods that wave around, 
And o'er the streams your shadows throw, 
Which sweetly winds so far below ; 

What secret charm to mem'ry brings, 
All that on Evan's border springs ! 
Sweet banks ! ye bloom by Mary's side : 
Blests tream ! she views thee haste to Clyde. 

Can all the wcaltli of India's coast 
Atone for years in absence lost ? 
Return, ye moments of delight. 
With richer treasures bless my sight ! 

Swift from this desert let me part, 
And fly to meet a kindred heart ! 
Nor more may aught my steps divide 
From that dear stream which flows to Clyde! 

COULD AUGHT OF SONG. 

Could aught of song declare my pains, 
Could artful numbers move thee. 

The muse should tell, in labour 'd strains, 
O Mary, how I love thee ! 

They who but feign a wounded heart, 
May teach the lyre to languish; 

But what avails the pride of art, 

When wastes the soul with anguish ? 

Then let the sudden bursting sigh 

The heart-felt pang discover \ 
And in the keen, yet tender eye, 

O read th' imploring lover. 

For well I know thy gentle mind 

Disdains art's gay disguising ; 
Beyond what fancy e'er refin'd. 

The voice of nature prizing. 

O LEAVE NOVELS. 

O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles, 
Ye're safer at your spinning wheel ; 

Such witching books are baited hooks 
For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel. 

Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons, 
They make your youthful fancies reel, 

They heat your brains, and fire your veins, 
And then ye're prey for Rob Mossgiel. 

Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung ; 

A heart that warmly seems to feel ; 
That feeling heart but acts a part, 

'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossffiel. 



The frank address, the soft caress, 
Arc worse than poison'd darts of steel 

The frank address, and politesse, 
Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel. 



TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 
Tune — Miss Forbes' Farewell to Banff. 

Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray, 
That lov'st to greet the early morn. 

Again thouusher'st in the day 
My Mary from my soul was torn. 

O Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest .'* 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend hia 
breast ? 

That sacred hour can I forget ? 

Can 1 forget the hallow'd grove. 
Where by the winding Ayr we met, 

To live one day of parting love ? 

Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports past; 
Thy image at our last embrace; 

Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! 

Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore, 
O'erhung with wild wood's thick'ning 
green ; 

The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 
Twin'd am'rous round the raptur'd scene. 

The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, 
The birds sang love on every spray, 

Till too, too soon, the glowing west 
Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. 

Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, 
And fondly broods with miser care ! 

Time but the impression deeper makes, 
As streams their channels deeper wear. 

My Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy blissful place of rest .'' 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his 
breast ? 



WOMEN'S MINDS. 
Tune — For a' that. 

Tho' women's minds, like winter winds 
May shift and turn, and a' that, 

The noblest breast adores them maist, 
A consequence I draw that. 

For a' that, and a' that, 

And tioicc as meiklc's a' that^ 

The hennie lass that I loe best 
Shell be my ainfor «' that. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



155 



'Great love I bear to all the fair, 
Their humble slave, and a' that ; 

But lordly toill, I hold it still 
A mortal sin to thraw that. 
For a' that, ^c. 

But there is ane aboon the lave. 
Has wit, and sense, and a' that ; 

A bonnie lass, I like her best, 
And wha a crime dare ca' that ? 
For a' that, «^c. 

f n rapture sweet, this hour we meet, 
Wi' mutual love and a' that ; 

But for how lang the flie may stang. 
Let inclination law that. 
For a' that, d^c. 

Their tricks and craft hae put me daft, 
They've ta'en me in, and a' that ; 

Sut clear your decks, and here's the sex ! 
I like the jades for a' that. 
For a' that, <^c. 



SWEETEST MAY. 

Sweetest May, let love inspire thee ; 
Take a heart which he designs thee ; 
As thy constant slave regard it ; 
For its faith and truth reward it. 

Proof o' shot to birth or money, 
Not the wealthy, but the bonnie ; 
Not high-born, but noble-minded, 
In love's silken band can bind it ! 

— O©^— 
FRAGMENT. 

Tune — John Anderson my Jo. 

One night as I did wander. 

When corn begins t© shoot, 
I sat me down to ponder, 

Upon an auld tree root : 
Auld Aire ran by before me, 

And bicker'd to the seas ; 
A cushat crowded o'er me 

That echoed thro' the braes. 



FRAGMENT. 

As I was a wand'ring ae merning in spring, 
1 heard a young ploughman sae sweetly to 

sing. 
And as he v^as singin' thir words he did say. 
There's nae life like the Ploughman's in the 

month o' sweet May. 

The lav'rock in the morning she'll rise frae 

her nest. 
And mount to the air, wi' the dew on her 

breast, 
And wi' the merry ploughman she'll whistle 

and sing. 
And at night shc*ll return to her nest back 

again. 



FRAGMENT. 

Her flo,wing locks, the raven's wing, 
Adown her neck and bosom hing ; 

How sweet unto that breast to cling, 
And round that neck entwine her ! 

Her lips are roses wet wi' dew ! 

O, what a feast her bonnie mou ! 
Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, 

A crimson still diviner! 



FRAGMENT. 

To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains, 
Where late wi' careless thought I rang'd, 

Though prest wi' care and sunk in wo. 
To thee I bring a heart unchang'd. 

I love thee, Nith, thy banks and braes, 
Tho' mem'ry there my bosom tear ; 

For there he rov'd that brake my heart, 
Yet to that heart, ah, still how dear ! 

— ©@©— 

FRAGMENT. 

The winter it is past, and the simmer comes 
at last, 
And the small birds sing on every tree ; 
Now every thing is glad, while I am very 
sad, 
Since my true love is parted from me. 

The rose upon the brier by the waters run- 
ning clear, 
May have charms for the linnet or the bee; 
Their little loves are blest, and their little 
hearts at rest. 
But my true love is parted from me. 



FRAGMENT 

Tune — Bonnie Dundee. 

In Mauchline there dwells six proper young 
belles. 
The pride of the place and its neighbour- 
hood a', 
Their carriage and dress, a stranger would 
guess, 
In Lon'on or Paris they'd gotten it a' : 

Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland's divine, 
Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is 
braw : 
There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss 
Morton, 
But ./3nnoMr'5* the jewel for me o' them a'. 



* This is one of our Bard's early productions. 
— Miss Armour is now Mrs. Burns. 



156 



BURNS S POEMS. 



ANNA. 

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire, 
And waste my soul with care ; 

But, ah! how bootless to admire, 
When fated to despair ! 

Yet in thy presence, lovely fair I 
To hope may be forgiven ; 

For sure, 'twere impious to despair 
So much in sight of heaven. 



THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT. 

Tune — Humours of Glen. 

The small birds rejoice in the green leaves 
returning, 
The murmuring streamlet winds clear 
thro' the vale ; 
The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the 
morning, 
And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the 
green dales: 

But what can give pleasure, or what can 
seem fair, 

While the lingering moments are number'd 
by care ? 
No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweet- 
ly singing. 

Can sooth the sad bosom of joyless despair. 

The deed that I dar'd could it merit their 
malice, 
A king and a father to place on his throne ? 
His right are these hills, and his right are 
these valleys, 
Where the wild beasts fxnd shelter, but I 
can find none. 

But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched, for- 
lorn, 

My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I 
mourn : 
Your deeds prov'd so loyal in hot bloody 
trial, 

Alas ! can I make you no sweeter return .'' 

••**©®^<<»* 
EPIGRAM 

ON 

CAPTAIN FRANCIS GROSE, 

THE CELEBRATED ANTIQUARY. 

The devil got notice that Grose was a-dying, 
So whip ! at the summons, old Satan came 

flying ; 
But when he approach 'd where poor Francis 

lay moaning, 
And saw each bed-post with its burden a- 

groaning, 
Astonish'd ! confounded ! cry 'd Satan, by G-d, 
I'll want 'ira, ere I take such a d ble load.* 

* Mr. Grose was exceedingly corpulent, and 
■used to rally himself, with the greatest good hu- 
mour, ou the singular rotundity of his figure. 



EPIGRAM 

ON ELPHINSTONe's TRANSLATION OF MAR- 

tial's epigrams. 

O thou whom Poetry abhors. 
Whom Prose had turned out of doors, 
Heard 'st thou that groan .'' — proceed no fur- 
ther, 
'Twas laurei'd Martial roaring murder. 



EPITAPHS. 



ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER. 

Here souter Will in death does sleep ; 

To h-11, if he's gane thither, 
Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, 

He'll baud itweel thegither. 

ON A NOISY POLEMIC. 

Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes ; 

O death, it's my opinion. 
Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin b-tch, 

Into thy dark dominion ! 



ON WEE JOHNNY. 
Hicjacettoee Johnny. 

Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know, 
That death has murder'd Johnny ! 

An' here his body lies fu' low 

For saul he ne'er had ony. 



FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER. 

O ye, whose cheek the tear of pity stains. 
Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend! 

Here lie the loving husband's dear remains ; 
The tender father, and the gen'rous friend. 

The pitying heart that felt for human wo ; 
The dauntless heart that fear'd no human 
pride ; 
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe; 
" For e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's 
side."* 



FOR R. A. ESQ. 

Know thou, O stranger to the fame 
Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name I 
(For none that knew him need be told) 
A warmer heart death ne'er made cold. 



* Goldstnith. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



157 



FOR G. H. ESQ. 

The poor man weeps — here G n sleeps, 

Whom canting wretches blam'd : 

But with such as he, where'er he be, 
May I be sav^d or damn'd I 



A BARD'S EPITAPH. 

Is there a whim-inspired fool, 

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 

Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, 

Let him draw near ; 
And owre this grassy heap sing dool. 

And drap a tear. 

Is there a bard of rustic song, 

Who, noteless, steals the crowds among. 

That weekly this area throng, 

O, pass not by ! 
But, with a frater-feeling strong, 

Here heave a sigh. 

Is there a man, whose judgment clear 
Can others teach the course to steer, 
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career, 

Wild as the wave ; 
Here pause — and, thro' the starting tear, 

Survey this grave. 

The poor inhabitant below 

Was quick to learn and wise to know, 

And keenly felt the friendly glow, 

£nd safter flame, 
But thoughtless follies laid him low. 

And stain'd his name ! 

Reader, attend — whether thy soul 
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole. 
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole. 

In low pursuit ; 
Know, prudent, cautious, seJf-control, 

Is wisdom's root. 

EPITAPH 

ON A WAG IN MAUCHLINE. 

Lament him Mauchline husbands a'. 

He alien did assist ye ; 
For had ye stay'd whole weeks awa, 

Your wives they ne'er had missed ye. 



Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye pass 
To school in bands thegither, 

O tread ye lightly on his grass. 
Perhaps he was your father. 



EPITAPH 



ON J — N B- 



-Y, WRITER IN DUMFRIES. 

y, honest man ! 



Here lies J — n B — 

Cheat him, Devil, if you can. 



EPITAPH ON JOHN DOVE, 

INNKEEPER, MAUCHLINE. 

Here lies Johnny Pidgeon j 

What was his religion ? 

Whae'er desires to ken, 

To some other warl' 

Maun follow the carl, 

For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane. 

Strong ale was ablution. 
Small beer persecution, 
A dram was memento mori; 
But a full flowing bowl 
Was the saving his soul, 
And port was celestial glory. 



EPITAPH 



ON WALTER S- 



Sic a reptile was Wat, 

Sic a miscreant slave, 
That the worms e'en d— 



■d him 



When laid in his grave. 
' In his flesh there's a famine,' 

A starv'd reptile cries ; 
'An' his heart is rank poison,' 

Another replies. 

EPITAPH 

ON A PERSON NICKNAMED THE MARQUIS, WHO 
DESIRED BURNS TO WRITE ONE ON HIM. 

Here lies a mock Marquis, whose titles were 

shamm'd, 
If ever he rise, it will be to be d d. 



END OF THE POEMS. 



GLOSSARY. 



The ch and gh have always the guttural sound. The sound of the English diphthong oo, is 
commonly spelled ou. The French m, a sound which often occurs in the Scottish lan- 
guage, is marked oo, or ui. The a in genuine Scottish words, except when forming a 
diphthong, or followed by an t mute after a single consonant, sounds generally like the 
broad English a in wall. The Scottish diphthong (D, always, and ea, very often, sound 
like the French e masculine. The Scottish diphthong ey, sounds like the Latin ei. 



A\ all. 

Aback, away, aloof. 

Jlbeigh, at a shy distance. 

Moon, above, up. 

Ahread, abroad, in sight. 

Ahreed, in breadth. 

Mdle, putrid water, &c. 

Ac, one. 

Aff, off; Aff loaf, unpremeditated. 

Afore, before. 

Aft, oft. 

Aften, often. 

Agley, off the right line ; wrong. 

Aihlins, perhaps. 

Ain, own. 

Airle-penny, AirleSf earnest-money. 

Aim, iron, 

Alth, an oath, 

Aits, oats. 

Aiver, an old horse. 

Aizle, a hot cinder. 

Alake, alas. 

Alane, alone, 

Akwart, awkward. 

Amaist, almost . 

Amang, among. 

An\ and ; if. 

Ance, once. 

Ane, one ; and. 

Anent, over against. 

Ardiher, another. 

Ase, ashes. 

Asklent, asquint ; aslant. 

Asteer, abroad; stirring. 

Athart, athwart. 

Aught, possession ; as, in a' iny aught, in 

all my possession. 
Auld lang syne, olden time, days of other 

years. 
Auld, old. 
Auldfarran, or auldfarrant, sagacious, 

cunning, prudent. 
Ava, at all. 
Awa' , away. 
Awfu\ awful. 
Awn, the beard of barley, oats, &c. 



Awnie, bearded. 
Ayont, beyond. 

Ba', ball. 

Backets, ash boards. 

Backlins, coming; coming back, returning. 

Back, returning. 

Bad, did bid. 

Baide, endured, did stay. 

Baggie, the belly. 

Bainie, having large bones, stout. 

Bairn, a child. 

Bairntime, a family of children, a brood. 

Baith, both. 

Ban, to swear. 

Bane, bone. 

Bang, to beat ; to strive. 

Bardie, diminutive of bard. 

Barefit, barefooted. 

Barmie, of, or like barm. 

Batch, a crew, a gang. 

Batts, bots. 

Baudrons, a cat. 

Bauld, bold. 

Bowk, bank. 

Baws'nt, having a white stripe down the 
face. 

Be, to let be; to give over ; to cease. 

Bear, barley. 

Beastie, diminutive of beast. 

Beet, to add fuel to fire. 

Beld, bald. 

Belyve, by and by. 

Ben, into the spence or parlour ; a spence. 

Benlomond, a noted mountain in Dumbar- 
tonshire. 

Bethankit, grace after meat. 

Beuk, a book. 

Bicker, a kink of wooden dish; a short race. 

Bie, or hield, shelter. 

Bien, wealthy, plentiful. 

Big, to build. 

Biggin, building ; a house. 

Biggit, built. 

BM, a bull. 

Billie, a brother, a young fellow. 



160 



GLOSSARY. 



Bingf a heap of grain, potatoes, «fcc. 

Birk, birch. 

Birken-shaw, Birchen-ioood-shaw, a small 

wood. 
Birkie, a clever fellow. 
Birring, the noise of partridges, &c. when 

they spring. 
Bit, crisis, nick of time. 
Bizz, a bustle, to buzz. 
Blastie, a shrivelled dwarf; a term of con- 
tempt. 
Blastit, blasted. 
Blate, bashful, sheepish. 
Blather, bladder. 

Blaud, a flat piece of any thing ; to slap. 
Blaw, to blow, to boast. 
Bleerit, bleared, sore with rheum. 
Bleert and blin, bleared and blind. 
Bleezing, blazing. 
Blellum, an idle talking fellow. 
Blether, to talk idly ; nonsense. 
BlethWin, talking idly. 
Blink, a little while ; a smiling look j to 

look kindly ; to shine by fits. 
Blinker, a term of contempt. 
Blinkin, smirking. 
Blue-gown, one of those beggars who get 

annually, on the king's birth-day, a blue 

cloak or gown, with a badge. 
Bluid, blood. 

Bluntie, a sniveller, a stupid person. 
Blype, a shred, a large piece. 
Bock, to vomit, to gush intermittently. 
Booked, gushed, vomited. 
Bodle, a small gold coin. 
Bogles, spirits, hobgoblins. 
Bonnie or honny, handsome, beautiful. 
Bonnock, a kind of thick cake of bread, a 

small jannock, or loaf made of oatmeal. 
Boord, a board. 
Boortree, the shrub elder ; planted much 

of old in hedges of barn-yards, &c. 
Boost, behoved, must needs. 
Bore, a hole in the wall. 
Botch, an angry tumour. 
Bousing, drinking. 
Bow-kail, cabbage. 
Bowt, bended, crooked. 
Brackens, fern. 
Brae, a declivity ; a precipice ; the slope 

of a hill. 
Braid, broad. 
Braindg't, reeled forward. 
Brain, a kind of harrow. 
Braindge, to run rashly forward. 
Brak, broke, made insolvent. 
Branks, a kind of wooden curb for horses. 
Brash, a sudden illness. 
Brats, coarse clothes, rags, &c. 
Brattle, a short race ; hurry ; fury. 
Braw, fine, handsome. 
Brawly, or hrawlie^ very well; finely; 

heartily. 
Braxie, a morbid sheep. 
Breasiie, diminutive of breast. 
Breaslit, did spring up or forward. 
Breckan, fern. 



Breef, an invulnerable or irresistible spell. 

Breeks, breeches. 

Brent, smooth. 

Brewin, brewing. 

Brie, juice, liquid. 

Brig, a bridge. 

Brunstane, brimstone. 

Brisket, the breast, the bosom. 

Brither, a brother. 

Brock, a badger. 

Brogue, a hum ; a trick. 

Broo, broth ; liquid ; water. 

Broose, broth ; a race at country weddings, 
who shall first reach the bridegroom's 
house on returning from church. 

Browster-wives, ale-house wives. 

Brugh, a burgh. 

Bruilzie, a broil, a combustion. 

Brunt, did burn, burnt. 

Brust, to burst ; burst. 

Buchan-bullers, the boiling of the sea a- 
mong the rocks on the coast of Buchan. 

Buckskin, an inhabitant of Virginia. 

Bught, a pen. 

Bughtin-time, the time of collecting the 
sheep in the pens to be milked. 

Buirdly, stout-made ; broad-made. 

Bum-clock, a humming beetle that flies in 
the summer evenings. 

Bumming, humming as bees. 

Bummle, to blunder. 

Bummler, a blunderer. 

Bunker, a window-seat. 

Bur dies, diminutive of birds. 

Bure, did bear. 

Burn, water ; a rivulet. 

Burnewin, i. e, burn the wind, a blacksmith 

Burnie, diminutive of burn. 

Buskie, bushy. 

Buskit, dressed. 

Busks, dresses. 

Bussle, a bustle ; to bustle. 

Buss, shelter. 

But, hot, with ; without. 

But an' ben, the country kitchen and par- 
lour. 

By himsel, lunatic, distracted. 

Byke, a bee-hive. 

Byre, a cow-stable ; a sheep-pen. 

Ca% to call, to name ; to drive. 
Ca't or ca'd, called; driven ; calved. 
Cadger, a carrier. 

Cadie, or caddie, a person ; a young fel- 
low. 
Caff, chaff. 
Caird, a tinker. 
Cairn, a loose heap of stones. 
Calf -ward, a small enclosure for calves. 
Call an, a boy. 

Caller, fresh, sound, refreshing. 
Canie, or cannie, gentle, mild ; dexterous. 
Cannilie, dexterously ; gently. 
Cantie, or canty, cheerful ; merry. 
Cantraip, a charm, a spell. 
Cap-stanc, c,ope-stone; key-stone. 
Careerin, cheerfully. 



GLOSSARY. 



161 



Carl, art old man. 

Carlin, a stout old woman. 

Cartes, cards. 

Caudron, a caldron. 

Caulk and keel, chalk and red clay. 

Cauld, cold. 

Caup, a wooden drinking-vessel. 

Cesses, taxes. 

Chanter, a part of a bag-pipe. 

Chap, a person, a fellow ; a blow. 

Chaup, a stroke, a blow. 

Cheekit, cheeked. 

Cheep, a chirp ; to chirp. 

Chiel, or cheel, a young fellow. 

Chimla, or chimlie, a fire-grate, a fire-place. 

Chimla-lug, the fireside. 

Chittering, shivering, trembling. 

Chockin, chocking. 

Chow, to chew ; cheek for chow, side by 

side. 
Chuffie, fat-faced. 
Clachan, a small village about a church ; a 

hamlet. 
Claise, or claes, clothes. 
Claith, cloth. 
Claithing, clothing. 

Claivers, nonsense; not speaking sense. 
Clap, clapper of a mill. 
Clarkit, wrote. 

Clash, an idle tale, the story of the day. 
Clatter, to tell idle stories ; an idle story. 
Claught, snatched at, laid hold of. 
Claut, to clean ; to scrape. 
Clauted, scraped. 
Clavers, idle stories. 
Claw, to scratch. 
Cleed, to clothe. 
Cleeds, clothes. 
Cleekit, ha.ving caught. 
Clinkin, jerking ; clinking. 
Clinkumhell, he who rings the church-bell. 
Clips, shears. 

Clishmaclaver, idle conversation. 
Clock, to hatch ; a beetle. 
Clockin, hatching. 
Cloot, the hoof of a cow, sheep, &c. 
Clootie, an old name for tiie Devil. 
Clour, a bump or swelling after a blow. 
Cluds, clouds. 
Coaxin, wheedling. 
Coble, a fishing -boat. 
Cockernony, a lock of hair tied upon a girl's 

head; a cap. 
Coft, bought. 
Cog, a wooden dish. 
Coggie, diminutive of cog. 
Coila, from Kyle, a district of Ayrshire ; so 
called, saith tradition, from Coil, or 
Coilus, a Pictish monarch. 
Collie,^ general, and sometimes a particu- 
lar name for country curs. 
Collieshangie, quarrelling, an uproar. 
Commaun, command. 
Cood, the cud. 

Coof, a blockhead ; a ninny. 
Cookit, appeared, and disappeared by fits. 

21 



Coost, did cast. 
Coot, the ancle or foot. 
Cootie, a wooden kitchen dish : — also, those 
fowls whose legs are clad withfeatherSf 
are said to be cootie. 
Corbies, a species of the crow. 
Core, corps ; party ; clan. 
Corn't, fed with oats. 
Cotter, the inhabitant of a cot-house, or 

cottage, 
Couthie, kind, loving. 
Cove, a cave. 
Cowe, to terrify ; to keep under, to lop ; a 

fright ; a branch of furze, broom, &c. 
Coicp, to barter ; to tumble over ; a gang. 
Cowpit, tumbled. 
Cowrin, cowering. 
Cowt, a colt. 
Cozie, snug. 
Cozily, snugly. 
Crabbit, crabbed, fretful. 
Crack, conversation ; to converse. 
Crackin, conversing. 
Craft, or croft, a field near a house (in old 

husbandry.) 
Craiks, cries or calls incessantly ; a bird. 
Crambo-clink, or crambo-jingle, rhymes, 

doggrel verses. 
Crank, the noise of an ungreased wheel. 
Crankous, fretful, captious. 
Cranreuch, the hoar frost. 
Crap, a crop ; to crop. 
Craw, a crow of a cock ; a rook. 
Creel, a basket ; to have one's wits in a 

creel, to be crazed ; to be fascinated. 
Creep ie-stool, the same as cutty-stool. 
Creeshie, greasy. 

Crood, or croud, to coO as a dove. 
Croon, a hollow and continued moan ; to 
make a noise like the continued roar of 
a bull ; to hum a tune. 
Crooning, humming. 
Crouchie, crook-backed. 
Grouse, cheerful ; courageous. 
Crousely, cheerfully ; courageously. 
Crowdie, a composition of oat-meal and 
boiled water, sometimes from the broth 
of beef, mutton, &c. 
Crowdie-time, breakfast time. 
Crowlin, crawling. 

Crummock, a cow with crooked horns. 
Crump, hard and brittle ; spoken of bread, 
Crunt, a blow on the head with a cudgel. 
Cuif, a blockhead, a ninny. 
Cummock, a short staff with a crooked 

head. 
Curchie, a courtesy. 

Curler, a player at a game on the ice, prac- 
tised in Scotland, called curling. 
Curlie, curled, whose hair falls naturally 

in ringlets. 
Curling, a well known game on the ice. 
Curmurring, murmuring ; a slight rum^ 

bling noise. 
Curpm, the crupper. 
Cushat, the dove, or wood-ptgeoa. 



162 



GLOSSARY. 



Cutty, short} a spoon broken in the mid- 
dle. 
Cutty-stool, the stool of repentance. 

Daddie, a father. 

Vaffin, merriment, foolishness. 

Daft, merry, giddy ; foolish. 

Daimen, rare, now and then ; daimenicker, 

an ear of corn now and then. 
Dainty, pleasant, good humoured, agreea- 
ble. 
Daise, daez, to stupify. 
Dales, plains, valleys, 
Darklins, darkling. 
Daud, to thrash, to abuse. 
Daur, to dare. 
Daurt, dared. 

Daurg, or daurk, a day's labour. 
Davoc, David. 
Dawd, a large piece. 
Dawtit, or dawtet, fondled, caressed. 
Dearies, diminutive of dears. 
Dearthfu\ dear. 
Deave, to deafen. 

Deil-via-care ! no matter '. for all that ! 
Deleerit, delirious. 
Descrive, to describe. 
Dight, to wipe ; to clean corn from chaff. 
Dight, cleaned from chaff. 
Ding, to worst, to push. 
Dink, neat, tidy, trim. 
Dinna, do not. 

Dirl, a sUght tremulous stroke or pain. 
Dizen, or dizz'n, a dozen. 
Doited, stupified, hebetated. 
Dolt, stupified, crazed. 
Donsie, unlucky. 
Dool, sorry ; to sing dool, to lament, to 

mourn. 
Doos, doves. 
Dorty, saucy, nice. 

Douce, or douse, sober, wise, prudent. 
Doucely, soberly, prudently. 
Dought, was or were able. 
DoMp, backside. 

Doup-skelper, one that strikes the tail. 
Dour and din, sullen and sallow. 
Doure, stout, durable ; sullen, stubborn. 
Dow, am or are able, can. 
Doicff, pithless, wanting force. 
Dowie, worn with grief, fatigue, «fcc. half 

asleep. 
Downa, am or are not able, cannot. 
Doylt, stupid. 

Dozen't, stupified, impotent. 
Drap, a drop ; to drop. 
Draigle, to soil by trailing, to draggle 

among wet, «fcc. 
Drapping, dropping. 
Draunting, drawling ; of a slow enuncia- 

ation. 
Dreep, to ooze, to drop. 
Dreigh, tedious, long about it. 
Dribble, drizzling } slaver. 
Drift, a drove. 
Droddum, the breech. 
Drone, part of a bagpipe, 



Droop-rumpVt, that drops at the crupper. 

Droukit, wet. 

Drounting, drawling. 

Drought, thirst, drought. 

Drucken, drunken. 

Drumly, muddy. 

Drummock, meal and water mixed in a 

raw state. 
Drunt, pet, sour humour. 
Dub, a small pond. 
Dubs, rags, clothes. 
Duddie, ragged. 
Dung, worsted ; pushed, driven. 
Dunted, beaten, boxed. 
Dush, to push as a ram, &c. 
Dusht, pushed by a ram, ox, &c. 

£'c, the eye. 

Een, the eyes. 

E'enin, evening. 

Eerie, frighted, dreading spirits. 

Eild, old age. 

Elbucky the elbow. 

Eldriech, ghastly, frightful. 

Eller, an elder, or church officer. 

£71', end, 

Enbrugh, Edinburgh. 

Eneugh, enough. 

Especial, especially. 

Ettle, to try, to attempt. 

Eydent, diligent. 

Fa\ fall ; lot ; to fall. 

Fa's, does fall ; water-falls. 

Faddom't, fathomed. 

Fae, a foe. 

Faem, foam. 

Faiket, unknown. 

Fairin, a fairing ; a present. 

Fallow, ieWovf. 

Fand, did find. 

Farl, a cake of oaten bread, &c. 

Fash, trouble, carej to trouble, to care for. 

Fasht, troubled. 

Fasteren e'en, Fasten's Even. 

Fauld, a fold ; to fold. 

Faulding, folding. 

Faut, fault. 

Faute, want, lack. 

Fawsont, decent, seemly. 

Feal, a field ; smooth. 

Fearfu\ frightful. 

Fear't, frighted. 

Feat, neat, spruce. 

Fecht, to fight. 

Fechtin, fighting. 

Feck, many, plenty. 

Fecket, an under waistcoat with sleeves. 

Feckfu', large, brawny, stout. 

Feckless, puny, weak, silly. 

Feckly, weakly. 

Feg, a fig. 

Feide, feud, enmity. 

Feirrie, stout, vigorous, Jiealthy. 

Fell, keen, biting ; the flesh immediately 

under the skin ; a field pretty level, on 

the side or top of a hill. 



GLOSSARY. 



163 



Fen, successful struggle ; fight. 

Fend, to live comfortably. 

Ferlie, or ftrley, to wonder ; a wonder ; a 
term of contempt. 

Fetch, to pull by fits. 

Fetck't, pulled intermittently. 

Fidge, to fidget. 

Fiel, soft, smooth. 

Fient, fiend, a petty oath. 

Fier, sound, healthy; a brother ; a friend. 

Fissle, to make a rustling noise j to fidget ; 
a bustle. 

Fit, a foot. 

Fittie-lan' , the nearest horse of the hind- 
most pair in the plough. 

Fizz, to make a hissing noise like ferment- 
ation. 

Flainen, flannel. 

Fleech, to supplicate in a flattering manner 

Fleech'd, supplicated. 

Fleechin, supplicating. 

Fleesh, a fleece. 

Fleg, a kick, a random. 

Flether, to decoy by fair words. 

Fletkerin, flattering. 

Fley, to scare, to frighten, 

Flichter, to flutter, as young nestlings 
when their dam approaches. 

Flinders, shreds, broken pieces, splinters. 

Flinging -tree, a piece of timber hung by 
way of partition between two horses in 
a stable ; a flail. 

Flisk, to fret at the yoke. Fliskit, fretted. 

Flitter, to vibrato like the wings of small 
birds. 

Flittering, fluttering, vibrating. 

Flunkie, a servant in livery. 

Fodgel, squat and plump. 

Foord, a ford. 

Forbears, forefathers. 

Forbye, besides. 

Forfairn, distressed ; worn out, jaded. 

Forfoughten, fatigued. 

Forgather, to meet, to encounter with. 

Forgie, to forgive. 

Forjesket, jaded with fatigue. 

Fother, fodder. 

Fou, full J drunk, 

Foughten, troubled, harassed. 

Fouth, plenty, enough, or more than 
enough, 

Fow, a bushel, &c. ; also a pitch-fork. 

Frae, from ; off*. 

Frammit, strange, estranged from, at en- 
mity with. 

Freatk, froth. 

Frien\ friend. 

FM',full. 

Fud, the scut, or tail ofthe hare, cony, &c. 

Fuff, to blow intermittently. 

Fuft, did blow. 

Funnie, full of merriment. 

Fur, a furrow. 

Furm, a form, bench. 

Fyke, trifling cares ; to piddle, to be in a 
fuss about trifles. 

Fyle, to soil, to dirty. 



FyVt, soiled, dirtied. 

Gab, the mouth; to speak boldly, or pertly. 

Gaber-lunzie, an old man. 

Gadsman, a ploughboy, the boy that drives 
the horses in the plough. 

Gae, to go ; gaed, went ; gaen, or gancy 
gone ; gaun, going, 

Gaet, or gate, way, manner ; road. 

GairSy triangular pieces of cloth sewed on 
the bottom of a gown, &c 

Gang, to go, to walk. 

Gar, to make, to force to. 

Gar^t, forced to. 

Garten, a garter. 

Gash, wise, sagacious ; talkative ; to con- 
verse. 

Gashin, conversing. 

Gaucy, jolly, large. 

Gaud, a plough. 

Gear, riches, goods of any kind. 

Geek, to toss the head in wantonness or 
scorn. 

Ged, a pike. 

Gentles, great folks, gentry. 

Gtnty, elegantly formed, neat. 

Geordie, a guinea. 

Get, a child, a young one. 

Ghaist, a ghost. 

Gie, to give ; gied, gave ; gien, given. 

Giftie, diminutive of gift, 

Giglets, playful girls. 

Gillie, diminutive of gill. 

Gilpey, a half-grown, half informed boy or 
girl, a romping lad, a hoiden. 

Gimmer, a ewe from one to two years old. 

Gin, if; against. 

Gipsey, a young girl. 

Girn, to grin, to twist the features in rage, 
agony, &c, 

Girning, grinning. 

Gizz, a periwig. 

Glaikit, inattentive, foolish. 

Glaive, a sword. 

Gawky, half-witted, foolish, romping. 

Glaizie, glittering ; smooth like glass. 

Glaum, to snatch greedily. 

Glaum'd, aimed, snatched. 

Gleck, sharp, ready. 

Gleg, sharp, ready. 

Gleib, glebe. 

Glen, a dale, a deep valley. 

Gley, a squint ; to squint; a-gley^ off at 
a side, wrong. 

Glib'gabbet, smooth and ready in speech. 

Glint, to peep. 

Glinted, peeped. 

Glintin, peeping. 

Gloamin, the twilight. 

Glowr, to stare ; to look ; a stare, a look. 

Glowred, looked, stared. 

Glunsh, a frown, a sour look. 

Goavan, looking round with a strange, in- 
quiring gaze ; staring stupidly. 

Gowan, the flower ofthe wild daisy, hawk- 
weed, &c. 

Gowany, daisied, abounding with daisies. 



164 



GLOSSARY. 



Gowd, gold. 

Gowff, the game of Golf; to strike as the 

bat does the ball at golf 
Goicff'd, struck. 

Gowk, a cuckoo; a terra of contempt. 
Gowl, to howl. 

Grane, or grain, a groan ; to groan. 
Grained and grunted, groaned and grunted. 
Graining, groaning. 
Graip, a pronged instrument for cleaning 

stables. 
Graith, accoutrements, furniture, dress, 

gear. 
Grannie, grandmother. 
Grape, to grope. 
Grapit, groped. 
Grat, wept, phed tears. 
Great, intimate, familiar. 
Gree, to agree ; to bear the gree, to be de- 
cidedly victor. 
GreeH, agreed. 
Greet, to shed tears, to weep. 
Greetin, crying, weeping. 
Grippet, catched, seized. 
Groat, to get the whistle of one^s groat, to 

play a losing g^cme. 
Gronsome, loathsomely, grim. 
Grozet, a gooseberry. 
Grumph, a grunt ; to grunt. 
Grumphie, a soV. 
Grun\ ground. 
Grunstane, a grindstone. 
Gruntle, the phiz ; a grunting noise. 
Grunzie, mouth. 

Grushie, thick; of thriving growth. 
Gude, the Supreme Being ; good. 
Guid, good. 

Guid-mornin' , good-morrow. 
Guid-e'en, good-evening. 
Guidman and guidwife, the master and 

mistress of the house ; young guidman, 

a map newly married. 
Guid-willie, liberal ; cordial. 
Guidfather , guidmother , father-in-law, and 

mother-in-law. 
Gully or gullie, a large knife. 
Gumlie, muddy. 
Qusty, tasteful. 

Ha\ hall. 

Ha'-Bible, the great bible that lies in the 

hall. 
Hae, to have. 
Haen, had, the participle. 
fjaet,fi.ent haet, apett}' oath of negation; 

jiothing. 
Haffet, the temple, the side of the head. 
Hafflins, nearly half, partly. 
Hag, a scar, or gulf in mosses, and moors. 
Haggis, a kina of pudding boiled in the 

stomach of a cow or sheep, 
Hain, to spare, to save. 
Hain'd, spared- 
Hairst, harvest. 
Haith, a petty oath. 
Haivers, nonsense, speaking without 

Jhougjit, 



HaV or Jiald, an abiding place. 

Hale, whole, tight, healthy. 

Holy, holy. 
Hame, home. 

Hallan, a particular partition-wall in a 
cottage, or more properly a seat of turf 
at the outside. 
Halloicmas, Hallow-eve, the 31st October. 

Hamely, homely, affable. 

Ha7i\ or haun\ hand. 

Hap, an outer garment, mantle, plaid, &c. 
to wrap, to cover ; to hop. 

Happer, a hopper. 

Happing, hopping. 

Hap step an' loup, hop skip and leap. 

Harkit, hearkened. 

Ham, very coarse linen. 

Hash, a fellow that neither knows how to 
dress nor act with propriety. 

Hastit, hastened. 

Haud, to hold. 

Haughs, low lying, rich lands; valleys. 

Haurl, to drag ; to peel. 

Haurlin, peeling. 

Haverel, a half-witted person ; half-witted. 

Havins, good manners, decorum, good 
sense. 

Hawkie, a cow, properly one with a white 
face. 

Hcapit, heaped. 

Healsome, healthful, wholesome. 

Hearse, hoarse. 

Hearst, hear it. 

Heather, heath. 

Hech ! oh ! strange. 

Hecht, promised; to foretell something 
that is to be got or given ; foretold ; the 
thing foretold ; offered. 

Heckle, a board, in which are fixed a num- 
ber of sharp pins, used in dressing hemp, 
flax, &c. 

Heeze, to elevate, to raise. 

Helm, the rudder or helm. 

Herd, to tend flocks ; one who tends flocks. 

Herrin, a herring. 

Herry, to plunder ; most properly to plun- 
der birds' nests. 

Hemjment, plundering, devastation. 

Hersel, herself; also a herd of cattle, of 
any sort. 

Het, hot. 

Hcugh, a crag, a coalpit. 

Hilcli, a hobble ; to halt. 

Hilchin, halting. 

Himsel, himself 

Hiney, honey. 

Hing, to hang. 

Hirple, to walk crazily, to creep. 

Hissel, so many cattle as one person can 
attend. 

Hislie, dry ; chapped; barren. 

Hitch, a loop, a knot. 

Hizzie, a hussy, a young girl. 

Hoddin, the motion of a sage countryman 
riding on a cart-horse ; humble. 

Hog-score, a kind of distance line, in curl- 
ing, drawn across the rinky 



GLOSSARY. 



165 



Hog'Shouther, a kind of horse-play, by 
justling with the shoulder ; to justle. 

Hool, outer skin or case, a nut-shell ; a 
peas-cod. 

Hoolie, slowly, leisurely. 

Koolie ! take leisure, stop. 

Hoord, a hoard ; to hoard. 

Hoordit, horded. 

Horn, a spoon made of horn. 

Hornie, one of the many names of the devil. 

Host, or hoast, to cough ; a cough. 

Hostin, coughing. 

Hosts, coughs. 

Hatch' t, turned topsyturvy ; blended, raix'd 

HougJ magandie, fornication. 

Houf'e^,, an owl. 

IL asie, diminutive of house. 

Hove, to heave, to swell, 

Hov'd, heaved, swelled. 

Howdie, a midwife. 

Howe, hollow ; a hollow or dell. 

Howebac/cit^ sunk in the back, spoken of a 
horse, &c. 

Howff, a tippling house ; a house of resort. 

Howk, to dig. 

Howkit, digged. 

Howkin, digging. 

Howlet, an owl. 

Hoy, to urge. 

HoyH, urged. 

Hoyse, to pull upwards. 

Hoyte, to arable crazily. 

Hughoc, diminutive of Hugh. 

Hurcheon, a hedgehog. 

Hvrdies, the loins ; the crupper. 

Hushion, a cushion. 

r, in, 

Icker, an ear of corn, 

Ier-06, a great-grand-child. 

Jlk, or Ilka, each, every. 

ni-willie, ill-natured, malicious, niggardly. 

Jngine, genius, ingenuity. 

Ingle, fire ; fire-place. 

Ise, I shall or will. 

Ither, other ; one another. 

Jad, jade ; also a familiar term among 
country folks for a giddy young girl. 

Jauk, to dally, to trifle. 

Jaukin, trifling, dallying. 

Jaup, a jerk ©f water ; to jerk as agitated 
water. 

Jaw, coarse raillery ; to pour out ; to shut, 

' to jerk as water. 

Jerkinet, a jerkin, or short gown. 

Jillet, a jilt, a giddy girl. 

Jimp, to jump ; slender in the waist ; hand- 
some. 

Jimps, easy stays. 

Jink, to dodge, to turn a corner; a sudden 
turning; a corner. 

Jinker, that turns quickly ; a gay, spright- 
ly girl ; a wag. 

Jinkin, dodging. 

Jirk, a jerk. 

JocUleg, a kind of knife. 



Jouk, to stoop, to bow the head. 

Jow, tojow, a verb which includes both 

the swinging inotion and pealing sound 

of a large bell. 
Jundie, to justle. 

Kae, a daw. 

Kail, colewort; a kind of broth. 

Kail-runt, the stem of colewort. 

Kain, fowls, &c. paid as rent by a farmer. 

Kehhuck, a cheese. 

Keckle, to giggle ; to titter. 

Keek, a peep, to peep. 

Kelpies, a sort of mischievous spirits said 
to haunt fords and ferries at night, es- 
pecially in storms. 

Ken, to know ; kend or kenn'd, knew. 

Kennin, a small matter. 

Kenspeckle, well known, easily known. 

Ket, matted, hairy ; a fleece of wool. 

Kilt, to truss up the clothes. 

Kimmer, a young girl, a gossip. 

Kin, kindred ; kin, kind, adj. 

King's-hood, a certain part of the entrails 
of an ox, &c. 

Kintra, country. 

Kintra Cooser, country stallion. 

Kirn, the harvest supper ; a churn. 

Kir sen, to christen, or baptize. 

Kist, a chest; a shop counter. 

Kitchen, any thing that eats 'with bread ; 
to serve for soup, gravy, &c. 

Kith, kindred. 

Kittle, to tickle ; ticklish ; lively, apt. 

Kittlin, a young cat. 

Kiuttle, to cuddle. 

Kiuttlin, cuddling. 

Knaggie, like knags, or points of rocks. 

Knap, to strike smartly, a smart blow. 

Knappin-hammer, a hammer for breaking 
stones. 

Knowe, a small round hillock. 

Knurl, a dwarf. 

Kye, cows. 

Kyle, a district in Ayrshire. 

Kyte, the belly. 

Kythe, to discover ; to show one's self 

Laddie, diminutive of lad. 

Laggen, the angle between the side and 
bottom of a wooden dish. 

Laigh, low. 

Lairing, wading, and sinking in snow, 
mud, &c. 

Laith, loath, 

Laithfu', bashful, sheepish. 

Lallans, the Scottish dialect of the Eng- 
lish language. 

Lambie, diminutive of lamb. 

Lampit, a kind of shell-fish, a limpit. 

Lan\ land ; estate. 

Lane, lone ; my lane, thy lane, &c. my- 
self alone, &c. 

Lanely, lonely. 

Lang, long; to think lang, to long, to 
weary. 

Lap, did leap. 



166 



GLOSSARY. 



iMve, the rest, the remainder, the others. 

Laverock, the lark. 

Lawin, shot, reckoning, bill. 

Lawlan, lowland. 

Lca^e, to leave. 

Leal, loyal, true, faithful. 

Lea-rig, grassy-ridge. 

Lear, (pronounce lare,) learning. 

Lee-lang, live-long. 

Leesome, pleasant. 

Leeze-me, a phrase of congratulatory en- 
dearment ; I am happy in thee, or proud 
of thee. 

Leister, a three-pronged dart for striking 
fish. 

Leugh, did laugh. 

Leuk, a look ; to look. 

Libhet, gelded. 

Lift, the sky. 

Lightly, sneeringly ; to sneer at. 

LUt, a ballad ; a tune ; to sing. 

Limmcr, a kept mistress, a strumpet. 

Limp't, limped, hobbled. 

Link, to trip along. 

Linkin, tripping. 

Linn, a water-fall ; a precipice. 

Lint, flax ; lint V the hell, flax in flower. 

Lintwhite, a linnet. 

Loan, or loanin, the place of milking. 

Loof, the palm of the hand. 

Loot, did let. 

Looves, plural of loof. 

Loun, a fellow, a ragamufiin ; a woman of 
easy virtue. 

LoM^, jump, leap. 

Lowe, a flame. 

Lowin, flaming. 

Loiorie, abbreviation of Lawrence. 

Lowse, to loose. 

Lows d, loosed. 

Lug, the ear; a handle. 
Lugget, having a handle. 

Luggie, a small wooden dish with a handle. 

Lum, the chimney. 

Lunch, a large piece of cheese, flesh, &c. 

Lunt, a column of smoke ; to smoke. 

Luntin, smoking, 

Lyart, of a mixed colour, gray. 

Mae, more. 

Mair, more. 

Maist, most, almost. 

Maistly, mostly. 

Mak, to make. 

Makin, making. 

Mailen, a farm. 

Maillie, Molly. 

Mang, among. 

Manse, the parsonage house, where the 
minister lives. 

Manteele, a mantle. 

Mark, marks, (This and several other 

nouns which in English require an s. to 

form the plural, are, in Scotch, like the 

words, sheep, deer, the same in both 

numbers. 

J\iarledj variegated } spotted. 



Mar's year, the year 1715. 

Mashlum, meslin, mixed corn. 

Mask, to mash, as malt, &c. 

Maskin-pat, a tea-pot. 

Maud, maad, a plaid worn by shepherds, 

(fee. 
Mavkin, a hare. 
Maun, must. 
Mavis, the thrush. 
Maw, to mow. 
Mawing, mowing. 
Meere, a mare. 
Meikle, meickle, much. 
Melancholious, mournful. 
Melder, corn, or grain of any kind, pent to 

the mill to be ground, 
Mell, to meddle. Also a mallet for pound- 
ing barley in a stone trough. 
Melvie, to soil with meal. 
Men\ to mend. 

Mense, good manners, decorum. 
Menseless, ill-bred, rude, impudent. 
Messin, a small dog. 
Midden, a dunghill. 
Midden-hole, a gutter at the bottom of a 

dunghill. 
Mim, prim, affectedly meek. 
Min', mind; resemblance. 

Mind't, mind it ; resolved, intending. 
Minnie, mother, dam. 

Mirk, mirkest, dark, darkest. 

Misca', to abuse, to call names. 

Misca'd, abused. 

Mislear'd, mischievous, unmannerly. 

Misteuk, mistook. 

Mither, a mother. 

Mixtie-maxtie, confusedly mixed. 

Moistify, to moisten. 

Mony, or monie, many. 

Moots, dust, earth, the earth of the grave. 
To rake i' the mools; to lay in the dust. 

Moop, to nibble as a sheep. 

Moorlan\ of or belonging to moors. 

Morn, the next day, to-morrow. 

Mou, the mouth. 

Moudiwort, a mole. 

J^foMs^e, diminutive of mouse. 

Muckle, or mickle, great, big, much. 

Musie, diminutive of muse. 

Muslin-kail, broth, composed simply of 
water, shelled-barley, and greens. 

Mutchkin, an English pint. 

Mysel, myself 

Ka, no, not, nor. 
JVac, no, not anjr. 
JVaething, or naithing, nothing. 
Naig, a horse. 
J^ane, none. 

Nappy, ale ; to be tipsy. 
JVegleckit, neglected. 
JVeuk, a nook, 
JViest, next. 
JVieve, the fist. 
Mevefu", handful. 

Mffer, an exchange ; to exchange, to bar- 
ter. 



GLOSSARY. 



167 



<Niger, a negro. 

JVine-taiVd-cat, a hangman's whip. 

JVit, a nut. 

JVorlandy of or belonging to the north. 

JVotic't, noticed. 

JVowte, black cattle. 

O', of. 

Ochelsi, name of mountains. 

O haitk, O faith ! an oath. 

Ony, or onie, any. 

Or, is often used for ere, before. 

Ora, or orra, supernumerary, that can be 

spared. 
0'<, ofit. 

Ourie, shivering ; drooping. 
Oursel, or oursels, ourselves . 
Outlers, cattle not housed. 
Ower, over ; too. 
Ower-hip, a way of fetching a blow with 

the hammer over the arm. 

Pack, intimate, familiar ; twelve stone of 

wool. 
Painch, paunch. 
Paitrick, a partridge. 
Pang, to cram. 
Parle, speech. 
Parritch, oatmeal pudding, a well known 

Scotch dish. 
Pat, did put ; a pot. 
Pattle, or pettle, a plough-staff. 
Paughty, proud, haughty. 
Pawky, or pawkie, cunning, sly. 
Pay't, paid ; beat. 
Peck, to fetch the breath short, as in an 

asthma. 
Pechan, the crop, the stomach, 
Peelin, peeUng, the rind of fruit. 
Pet, a domesticated sheep, &c. 
Pettle, to cherish ; a plough-staff. 
Philihegs, short petticoats worn by the 

Highlandmen. 
Phraise, fair speeches, flattery ; to flatter. 
Phraisin, flattery. 
Pibroch, Highland war music adapted to 

the bagpipe. 
Pickle, a small quantity. 
Pine, pain, uneasiness." 
Pit, to put. 

Placad, a public proclamation. 
Plack, an old Scotch coin, the third part 

of a Scotch penny, twelve of which 

make an English penny. 
Plackless, pennyless, without money. 
Platie, diminutive of plate. 
Pleio, or pleugh, a plough. 
Pliskie, a trick. 
Poind, to seize cattle or goods for rent, as 

the laws of Scotland allow. 
Poortith,'foyeity, 
Pou, to pull. 
Pouk, to pluck. 
Poussie, a hare or cat. 
Pout, a poult, a chick. 
PouH, did pull. 
Powthery, like powder. 



Pow, the head, the skull. 

PowniCf a little horse. 

Powther, or pouther, powder. 

Preen, a pin. 

Prent, to print j print. 

Prie, to taste. 

Prie'd, tasted. 

Prief, proof 

Pri^, to cheapen ; to dispute. 

Priggin, cheapening. 

Primsie, demure, precise. 

Propone, to lay down, to propose. 

Provoses, provosts. 

Puddock-stool, a mushroom, fungus. 

Pund, pound ; pounds. 

Pyle,—a pyle o' caff, a single grain of chaff. 

Quat, to quit. 

Quak, to quake. 

Q,uey, a cow from one to two years old. 

Ragweed, the herb ragwort. 

Raible, to rattle nonsense. 

Pair, to roar. 

Raize, to madden, to inflame. 

Ram-feezVd, fatigued ; overspread. 

Ram-stam, thoughtless, forward. 

Raploch, (properly) a coarse cloth; but 
used as an adnounfor coarse. 

Rarely, excellently, very well. 

Rash, a rush ; rash-bush, a bush of rushes. 

Ratton, a rat. 

Raucle, rash ; stout ; fearless. 

Raught, reached. 

Raw, a row. 

Rax, to stretch. 

iJeam, cream; to cream. 

Reaming, brimful, frothing. 

Reave, rove. 

Reck, to heed. 

Rede, counsel ; to counsel. 

Red-wat-shod, walking in blood over the 

shoe-tops. 
Red-wud, stark-mad. 
Ree, half-drunk, fuddled. 
Reek, smoke. 
Reekin, smoking. 
Reekit, smoked ; smoky. 
Remead, remedy. 
Requite, requited. 
Rest, to stand restive. 
Restit, stood restive ; stunted ; withered. 
Restricked, restricted. 
Rew, to repent, to compassionate. 
Rief, reef, plenty. 
Rief randies, sturdy beggars. 
Rigi a ridge. 

Rigwiddie, rigwoodie, the rope or chain 
that crosses the saddle of a horse to sup- 
port the shafts of a cartj spare, wi- 
thered, sapless. 
Rin, to run, to melt ; rinnin, running. 
Rink, the course of the stones; a term in 

curling on ice. 
Rip, a handful of unthreshed corn. 
Riskit, made a noise like the fearing of 

roots. * 



168 



GLOSSARY. 



Rockin, spinning on the rock, or distaff. 

Rood, stands likewise for the plural roods. 

Roon, a shred, a border or selvage. 

Roose, to praise, to commend. 

Roosty, rusty. 

Roun', round, in the circle of neighbour- 
hood. 

Roupet, hoarse, as with a cold. 

Routhie, plentiful. 

Row, to roll, to wrap. 

Row't, rolled, wrapped. 

Rowte, to low, to bellow, 

Rowth, or routh, plenty. 

Rowtin, lowing. 

Rozet, rosin. 

Rung, a cudgel. 

Runkled, wrinkled. 

Runt, the stem of colewort or cabbage. 

Ruth, a woman's name ; the book so called; 
sorrow. 

Ryke, to reach. 

Sae, so. 

Soft, soft. 

Sair, to serve ; a sore. 

Sairly, or sairlie, sorely. 

Sair't, served. 

Sark, a shirt ; a shift. 

Sarkit, provided in shirts. 

Saugh, the willow. 

Said, soul. 

Saumont, salmon. 

Saunt, a saint. 

Saut, salt, adj. salt. 

Saw, to sow. 

Sawin, sowing. 

Sax, six. 

Scaith, to damage, to injure ; injury. 

Scar, a cliff. 

Scaud, to scald. 

Scauld, to scold. 

Scaur, apt to be scared. 

Scawl, a scold, a termagant. 

Scon, a cake of bread. 

Sconner, a loathing ; to loathe. 

Scraich, to scream as a hen, partridge, «&c. 

Screed, to tear ; a rent. 

Scrieve, to glide swiftly along. 

Scrievin, gleesomely ; swiftly. 

Scrimp, to scant. 

Scrimpet, did scant ; scanty. 

See'd, did see. 

Seizin, seizing. 

Sel, self; a body's sel, one's self alone. 

SelVt, did sell. 

Sen', to send. 

Sen't, T, &c. sent, or did send it ; send it. 

Servan', servant. 

Settlin, settling; to get a settlin, to be 
frighted into quietness. 

Sets, sets off, goes away. 

Shackled, distorted ; shapeless. 

Shaird, a shred, a shard. 

Shangan, a stick cleft at one end for put- 
ting the tail of a dog, &c. into, by way 
of mischief, or to frighten him away. 

Shaver, a humourous wag ; a barber. 



Shaw, to show ; a small wood in a hollow. 

Sheen, bright, shining. 

Sheep-shank ; to think one's selfnae sheep- 
shank, to be conceited. 

Sherra-moor, sheriff-moor, the famous bat- 
tle fought in the rebellion, A. D. 1715. 

Sheugh, a ditch, a trench, a sluice. 

Shiel, a shed. 

Shill, shrill. 

Shog, a shock ; a push off at one side. 

Shool, a shovel. 

Shoon, shoes- 

Shore, to offer, to threaten, 

Shor'd, offered. 

Shouther, the shoulder. 

Shure, did shear, shore. 

Sic, such. 

Sicker, sure, steady. 

Sidelins, sidelong, slanting. 

Siller, silver ; money. 

Simmer, summer. 

Sin, a son. 

Sin', since. 

Skaith, see scaith. 

Skellum, a worthless fellow. 

Skelp, to strike, to slap ; to walk with a 
smart tripping step ; a smart stroke. 

Skelpie-limmer, a reproachful term in fe- 
male scolding. 

Skelpin, steppin, walking. 

Skiegh, or skeigh, proud, nice, high-met- 
tled. 

Skinklin, a small portion. 

Skirl, to shriek, to cry shrilly. 

Skirling, shrieking, crying. 

SkirVt, shrieked. 

Sklent, slant; to run aslant; to deviate 
from truth. 

Sklented, ran, or hit, in an oblique direction. 

Skouth, freedom to converse without re- 
straint ; range, scope. 

Skriegh, a scream ; to scream. 

Skyrin, shining ; making a great show. 

Skyte, force, very forcible motion. 

Slae, a sloe. 

Slade, did slide. 

Slap, a gate ; a breach in a fence. 

Slaver, saliva ; to emit saliva. 

Slaw, slow. 

Slee, sly ; sleest, sliest. 

Sleekit, sleek ; sly. 

Sliddery, slippery. 

Slype, to fall over, as a wet furrow from 
the plough. 

Slypet, fell. 

Sma', small. 

Smeddum, dust, powder ; mettle, sense. 

Smiddy, a smithy. 

Smoor, to smother. 

Smoor'd smothered. 

Smoutic, smutty, obscene, ugly. 

Smytrie, a numerous collection of small in- 
dividuals. 

Snapper, to stumble, a stumble. 

Snash, abuse, Billingsgate. 

Snaw, snow ; to snow. 

Snaio-broOf melted snow. 



GLOSSARY. 



169 



Snatoie, snowy. 

Sneck, snick, the latch of a door. 
Sned, to lop, to cut off. 
Sneeshin, snuff. 
Sneeshin-mill, a snuff-box. 
Snell, bitter, biting. 

Snick-drawing, trick-contriving, crafty. 
Snirtle, to laugh restrainedly. 
Snood, a ribbon for binding the hair. 
Snool, one whose spirit is broken with op- 
pressive slavery ; to submit tamely, to 

sneak. 
Snoove, to go smoothly and constantly, to 

sneak. 
Snowk, to scent or snuff, as a dog, &c. 
Snoickit, scented, snuffed. 
Sonsie, having sweet engaging looks ; 

lucky, jolly. 
Soom, to swim. 
Sooth, truth, a petty oath. 
Sough, a heavy sigh, a sound dying on the 

ear. 
Souple, flexible ; swift. 
Souter, a shoemaker. 
Sowens, a dish made of oatmeal ; the seeds 

of oatmeal soured, &c. flummery. 
Sowp, a spoonful; a small quantity of any 

thing liquid. 
Sowth, to try over a tune with a low whis- 
tle. 
Sowther, solder; to solder, to cement. 
S-pae, to prophesy, to divine. 
Spaul, a limb. 

Spairge, to dash, to soil, as mire. 
Spaviet, having the spavin. 
Spean, spane, to wean, 
Speat, or spate, a sweeping torrent, after 

rain or thaw. 
Sped, to climb. 
Spence, the country parlour. 
Spier, to ask, to inquire. 
SpierH, inquired. 
Splatter, a splutter, to splutter. 
Spleughan, a tobacco-pouch. 
Splore, a froHc; a noise, riot. 
Sprackle, sprachle, to clamber. 
Sprattle, to scramble, 
Spreckled, spotted, speckled. 
Spring, a quick air in music ; a Scottish 

reel. 
Sprit, a tough-rooted plant, something 

like rushes. 
Sprittie, full of sprit. 
Spunk, fire, mettle ; wit. 
Spunkie, mettlesome, fiery ; toill-o'-wisp, 

or ignis fatuus. 
Spurtle, a stick used in making oatmeal 

pudding or porridge. 
Squad, a crew, a party. 
Squatter, to flutter in water, as a wild 

duck, &LC. V 

Squattle, to sprawl. 

Squeel, a scream, a screech ; to scream. 
Stacker, to stagger. 
Slack, a rick of corn, hay, &c. 
Staggie, the diminutive of stag. 
Stalwart, stronor, stout. 

22 



Stant, to stand ; stan't^ did stand. 

Stane, a stone. 

Stang, an acute pain ; a twinge ; to sting. 

Stank, did stink; a pool of standing water. 

Stap, stop. 

Stark, stout. 

Startle, to run as cattle stung by the gad- 
fly- 

Staumrel, a blockhead ; half-witted. 

Staio, did steal ; to surfeit. 

Stech, to cram the belly. 

Stechin, cramming. 

Steek, to shut ; a stich. 

Steer, to molest ; to stir. 

Steeve, firm, compacted. 

Stell, a still. 

Sten, to rear as a horse. 

Sten't, reared. 

Stents, tribute ; dues of any kind. 

Stey, steep ; steyest, steepest. 

Stibble, stubble ; stibble-rig, the reaper in 
harvest who takes the lead. 

Stick an' stow, totally, altogether. 

Stile, a crutch ; to halt, to limp. 

Stimpart, the eighth part of a Winchester 
bushel. 

Stirk, a cow or bullock a year old. 

Stock, a plant or root of colewort, cab- 
bage, &c. 

Stockin, a stocking ; throwing the stocking 
when the bride and bridegroom are put 
into bed, and the candle out, the former 
throws a stockin at random among the 
company, and the person whom it strikes 
is the next that will be married. 

Stoiter, to stagger, to stammer. 

Stooked, made up in shocks as corn, 

Stoor, sounding hollow, strong, and hoarse. 

Stot, an ox. 

Stoup, or stowp, a kind of jug or dish with 
a handle. 

St our e, dust, more particularly dust in 
motion. 

Stowlins, by stealth. 

Stown, stolen. 

Stoyte, to stumble. 

Strack, did strike. 

Strac, straw ; to die a fair strae death, to 
die in bed. 

Straik, did strike. 

Straikit, stroked. 

Strappan, tall and handsome. 

Straught, straight, to straighten. 

Streek, stretched, tight ; to stretch. 

Striddle, to straddle. 

Stroan, to spout, to piss. 

Sluddie, an anvil. 

Stumpie, diminutive of stump. 

.SfrM7i?, spirituous liquor of any kind; to 
walk sturdily ; huff, sullenness. 

Stuff, corn or pulse of any kind. 

Sturt, trouble ; to molest. 

Sturtin, frighted. 

Sucker, sugar. 

Sud, should. 

Sugh, the continued rushing noiae of wind 
or water. 



170 



GLOSSARY. 



Suthron, southern ; an old name for the 
English nation. 

Swaird, sward. 

Swalled, swelled. 

Sicankf stately, jolly. 

Swankie, or sioankcr, a tight strapping 
young fellow or girl. 

Swap, an exchange ; to barter. 

Swarf, to swoon ; a swoon. 

Swat, did sweat. 

Swatch, a sample. 

Stoats, drink ; good ale. 

Sweaten, sweating. 

SwecT, lazy, averse ; dead-sioeer, extreme- 
ly averse. 

Swoor, swore, did swear. 

Swinge, to beat ; to whip. 

Swirl, a curve ; an eddjdng blast, or pool ; 
a knot in wood. 

Swirlie, knaggie, full of knots. 

Stcit.h, to get away. 

SiDither, to hesitate in choice ; an irreso- 
solute wavering in choice. 

SynCf since, ago; then. 

Tackcis, a kind of nails for driving into the 

heels of shoes. 
Tac, a toe; thrcc-taed, having three prongs 
Tairge, a target. 
Tak, to take ; takin, taking. 
Tamiallan, the name of a mountain. 
Tangle, a sea-weed. 
Tap, the top. 

Tapeiless, heedless, foolish. 
Tarroic, to murmur at one's allowance. 
Tar row' t, murmured. 
Tarry -hreeks, a sailor. 
Tauld, or tald, told. 

Taupie, a foolish, thoughtless young person 
Touted, or iawf if, matted together ; spoken 

of hair or wool. 
Taicie, that allows itself peaceably to be 

bandied ; spoken of a horse, cow, &c. 
Teat, a small quantity. 
Teen, to provoke ; provocation. 
Teddivg, spreading after the mower. 
Ten-hours bite, a slight feed for tlie horses 

while in tho yoke, in the forenoon. 
Tent, a field-pulpit ; heed, caution; to take 

heed ; to tend or herd cattle. 
Tentic, heedful, caution. 
Tentlcss^ heedless. 
Tevgh, tough. 
Thack, thatch ; thack an' rape, clothing. 

necessaries. 
Thae, these. 

Thairms, small guts ; fiddle-strings. 
Thankit, thanked. 
Theekit, thatched, 
Thegither, together. 
Themsel, themselves. 
Thick, intimate, familiar. 
Thievciess, cold, dry, spited ; spoken of a 

person's demeanour. 
Thir, these. 
Thirl, to thrill. 
Thirhd, thrilleil, vibrated. 



Thole, to suffer, to endure. 

Thowe, a thaw, to thaw. 

Thowless, slack, lazy. 

Thrang, throng ; a crowd. 

Thrapple, throat, windpipe. 

Thravc, twenty-four sheaves or two shocks 
of corn ; a considerable number. 

Thraw, to sprain, to twist ; to contradict. 

Thraioin, twisting, &c. 

Thrawn, sprained, twisted, contradicted. 

Threap, to maintain by dint of assertion. 

Threshin, thrashing. 

Thrcteen, thirteen. 

Thristle, thistle. 

Through, to go on with ; to make out. 

Throuther, pell-mell, confusedly. 

Thud, to make a loud intermittent noise. 

Thumpil, thumped. 

Thysel, thyself. 

TilVt, to it. 

Timmer, timber. 

Tine, to lose ; tiyit, lost. 

Tinkler, a tinker. 

Tint the gate, lost the way. 

Tip, a ram. 

Tippeuce, twopence. 

Tirl, to make a slight noise ; to uncover. 

Tirlin, uncovering. 

Tither, ih.e other. 

Tittle, to whisper. 

TiiLlin, whispering. 

Tocher, marriage portion. 

Tod, a fox. 

Toddle, to totter, like the walk of a child. 

Toddlin, tottering. 

Toom, empty, to empty. 

To op, a ram. 

Toun, a hamlet ; a farm-house. 

Tout, the blast of a horn or trumpet, to 
blow a horn, &c. 

Toto, a rope. 

Tou-mond, a twelvemonth. 

Toiczie, rough, shaggy. 

Toy, a very old fashion of female head- 
dress. 

Toyte, to totter like old age. 

Transmugrify'd, transmigrated, metamor- 
phosed. 

Trashtrie, trash. 

Trews, trowsers. 

Trickie, full of tricks. 

Trig, spruce, neat. 

Trimly, excellently. 

Trow, to believe. 

Trowth, truth, a petty oath. 

Tryste, an appointment ; a fair. 

Trysted, appointed ; to tryste, to make an 
appointment. 

Try't, tried. 

Tug, raw hide, of which in old times 
plough-traces were frequently made. 

Tulzie, a quarrel ; to quarrel, to fight. 

Twa, two. 

Twa-three, a few. 

' r?oflf?, it would. 

Twal, twelve; iwal-pennie worth, small 
quantity, a penny-worth. 



GLOSSARY. 



171 



N. B. One penny English is 12(i Scotch. 
Twin, to part. 
Tyke, a dog. 

Unco, strange, uncouth ; very, very great, 

prodigious. 
Uncos, news. 
Unkenn'd, unknown. 
Unsicker, unsure, unsteady. 
Unskaith'd, undamaged, unliurt. _ 
Umoeeting, unwittingly, unknowingly « 
Upo\ upon. 
Urchin, a hedge-hog . 

Vap'rin, vapouring. 

Vera, very. 

Virl, a ring round a cokimn, &c. 

Vittle, corn of all kinds, food. 

Wa\ wall ; wa's, walls. 

Wahster, a weaver. 

Wad, would ; to bet ; a bet, a pledge. 

Wadna, would not. 

Wae, wo ; sorrowful. 

Waefu\ woful, sorrowful, wailing. 

Waesucks! or waes-me! alas! O the pity. 

IVaft, the cross thread that goes from the 

shuttle through the web ; woof. 
Wair, to lay out, to expend. 
Wale, choice; to choose. 
WaVd, chose, chosen. 
Walie, ample, large, jolly; also an inter- 
jection of distress. 
Wame, the belly. 
Wamefu\ a belly-full. 
Wanchancie, unlucky. 
Wanrestfu\ restless. 
Wark, work. 

JVark-lume, a tool to work with. 
Warl, or warld, world. 
Warlock, a wizard. 

Warly, worldly, eager on amassing wealth 
Warran, a warrant; to warrant. 
War St, worst. 

WarstVd, or toarsl'd, wrestled. 
Wastrie, prodigality. 
Wat, wet ; / wat, I wot, I know. 
Water-brose, brose made of meal and water 

simply, without the addition of milk, 

butter, &c. 
Wattle, a twig, a wand. 
Wauble, to swing, to reel. 
Waught, a draught, 
Waukit, thickened as fullers do cloth, 
Waukrife, not apt to sleep. 
Waur, worse ; to worst. 
IVaur^t, worsted. 
Wean, or wcanie, a child. 
Wearie, or iveary; many a weary body, 

many a cUfferent person. 
Weason, weasand. 
Weaving the Stocking. See Stockimr, n. 

169. °^ 

Wee, little ; wee things, little ones ; toee 

bit, a small matter. 
Weel, well ; welfare, welfare. 
Weet, rain, wetness. 



Weird, fate. 

We'se, we shall. 

Wha, who. 

Whaizle, to wheeze. 

Whalpil, whelped. 

Whang, a leathern string; a piece of cheese, 

bread, &c. ; to give the strappado. 
Whare, where; where'er, wherever. 
Wheep, to fly nimbly, to jerk ; penny-wheep, 

small beer. 
Whase, whose. 
Whatreck, nevertheless. 
Whid, the motion of a hare, running but 

not frighted ; a lie. 
Whidden, running as a hare or cony. 
Whigmele cries, whims, fancies, crotchets. 
Whinging, crying, complaining, fretting. 
Whirligigums, useless ornaments, trifling 

appendages. 
Whissle, a whistle ; to whistle. 
Whist, silence ; to hold one's ichist, to be 

silent. 
FF/a's/t;, to sweep, to lash. 
Whiskit, lashed. 

Whitter,a hearty draught of liquor. 
Whun-stane, a whin- stone. 
Whijles, whiles, sometimes. 
Wi", with. 
Wicht, wight, powerful, strong ; inventive ; 

of a superior genius. 
Wick, to strike a stone in an oblique direc- 
tion ; a term in curling. 
Wicker, willow (the smaller sort.) 
Wiel, a small whirlpool. 
Wifie, a diminutive or endearing term for 

wife. 
Wilyart, bashful and reserved; avoiding 

society or appearing awkward in it; 

wild, strange, timid. 
Wimple, to meander. 
WimpVt, meandered. 
Wimplin, waving, meandering. * 

Win, to win, to winnow. 
Win't, winded as a bottom of yarn. 
Win, wind; loin's, winds. 
Winna,-w\\\ not. 
Winnock, a window. 
Winsome, hearty, vaunted, gay. 
JVintle, a staggering motion ; to stagger, 

to reel. 
Winze, an oath. 
Wiss, to wish. 
Withouten, without. 
Wizen' d, hide bound, dried, shrunk. 
Wonner, a wonder; a contemptuous ap- 
pellation. 
Wons, dwells. 
Woo', wool. 

Woo, to court, to make love to. 
Woodic, a rope, more properly one made 

of withes or willows. 
Wooer-bab, the garter knotted below the 

knee with a couple of loops. 
Wordy, worthy. 
Worset, worsted. 

Woio, an exclamation of pleasure or wonder 
Wrack, to teaze, to vex>, 



172 



GLOSSARY. 



Wraith, a spirit, or ghost ; an apparition 
exactly like a living person, whose ap- 
pearance is said to forebode the persons 
approaching death. 

Wrangf wrong, to wrong. 

Wreeth, a drifted heap of snow. 

Wud-mad, distracted. 

Wumhle, a wimble. 

WyUj to beguile. 

Wyliecoat, a flannel vest, 

Wyt€, blame ; to blame. 

Yad, an old mare ; a worn out horse. 
Ye; this pronoun is frequently used for 

thou. 
Yearns J longs much. 
Yearlings, born in the same year, coevals. 



Year is used both for singular and plural, 
years. 

Yearn, earn, an eagle, an ospray. 

Yell, barren, that gives no milk. 

Yerk, to lash, to jerk. 

Yerkit, jerked, lashed. 

Yestreen, yesternight. 

Yett, a gate, such as is usually at the en- 
trance into a farm-yard or field. 

Yill, ale. 

Yird, earth. 

Yokin, yoking ; a bout. 

Yont, beyond. 

Yoursel, yourself* 

Yowe, a ewe. 

Yowie, diminutive of yowe. 

Yule, Christmas. 



THS 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS 

WITH 

HIS GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE; 

ALSO 

CRITICISMS ON HIS WRITINGS, 

AND 

OBSERVATIONS ON THE SCOTTISH PEASANTRY. 
BY DR. CURRIE. 



DR. CURRIE'S DEDICATION 

TO 

CAPTAIN GRAHAM MOORE, 

OF THE ROYAL NAVY. 



When you were stationed on our coast 
about twelve years ago, you first recom- 
mended to my particular notice the poems 
of the Ayrshire ploughman, whose works, 
published for the benefit of his widow and 
children, I now present to you. In a distant 
region of the world, whither the service of 
your country has carried you, you will, I 
know, receive with kindness this proof of 
my regard ; not perhaps without some sur- 
prise on finding that I have been engaged in 
editing these volumes, nor without some cu- 
riosity to know how I was qualified for such 
an undertaking. These points I will briefly 
explain. 

Having occasion to make an excursion to 
the county of Dumfries, in the summer of 
1792; I had there an opportunity of seeing 
and conversing with Burns. It has been 
my fortune to know some men of high repu- 
tation in literature, as well as in public life ; 
but never to meet any one who, in the course 
of a single interview, communicated to me 
so strong an impression of the force and ver- 
satility of his talents. After this I read the 
poems then published with greater interest 
and attention, and with a full conviction 
that, extraordinary as they are, they aflTord 
but an inadequate proof of the powers of 
their unfortunate author. 

Four years afterwards Burns terminated 
his career. Among those whom the charms 
of his genius had attached to him, was one 
with whom I have been bound in the ties of 
friendship from early life-»-Mr. John Syme 
of Ryedale. This gentleman, after the death 
of Burns, promoted with the utmost zeal a 
subscription for the support of the widow 
and children, to wliich their relief from im- 
mediate distress is to be ascribed; and in 
conjunction with other friends of this vir- 
tuous and destitute family, ho projected tho 
publication of these volumes for their bene- 
fit, by which the return of want might be 
prevented or prolonged. 

To this last undertaking an editor and bio- 
grapher was wanting, and Mr. Synie's mo- 
desty opposed a barrier to his assuming an 



office, for which he was in other respects 
peculiarly qualified. On this subject he con- 
sulted me ! and with the hope of surmount- 
ing his objections, I oiFered him my assist- 
ance, but in vain. Endeavours were used 
to procure an editor in other quarters with- 
out effect. The task was beset with consi- 
derable difficulties, and men of established 
reputation naturally declined an undertaking 
to the performance of which, it was scarcely 
to be hoped that general approbation could 
be obtained by any exertion of judgment or 
temper. 

To such an office, my place of residence, 
my accustomed studies, and my occupations, 
were certainly little suited; but the partiali- 
ty of Mr. Syme thought me in other respects 
not unqualified ; and his solicitations, joined 
to those of our excellent friend and relation, 
Mrs. Dunlop, and of other friends of the fa- 
mily of the poet, I have not been able to re- 
sist. To remove difficulties which would 
otherwise have been insurmountable, Mr. 
Syme and Mr. Gilbert Burns made a journey 
to Liverpool, where they explained and ar- 
ranged the manuscripts, and selected such 
as seemed worthy of the press. From this 
visit I derived a degree of pleasure which 
has compensated much of my labour. I had 
the satisfaction of renewing my personal in- 
tercourse with a much valued friend, and of 
forming an acquaintance with a man, closely 
allied to Burns in talents as well as in blood, 
in whose future fortunes the friends of virtue 
will not, I trust, be uninterested. 

The publication of these volumes has been 
delayed by obstacles which these gentlemen 
could neither remove nor foresee, and which 
it would be tedious to enumerate. At length 
the task is finished. If the part which I have 
taken shall serve the interest of the family, 
and receive the approbation of good men, I 
shall have my recompense. The errors into 
which I have fallen are not, I hope, very im- 
portant, and they will be easily accounted for 
by those who know the circumstances under 
which this undertaking has been performed. 
Generous minds will receive the posthumou* 
works of Burns with candour, and even par- 



4V 



DEDICATION. 



tiality, ae the remains of an unfortunate man 
of genius, published for the benefit of his fa- 
mily — as tne stay of the widow and the hope 
of the fatherless. 

To secure the suffrages of such minds, all 
topics are omitted in the writings, and avoid- 
ed in the life of Burns, that have a tendency 
to awaken the animosity of party. In perus- 
ing the following volumes no offence will be 
received, except by those to whom even the 
Datural erect aspect of genius is offensive } 
characters that will scarcely be found among 
those who are educated to the profession of 
arms. Such men do not court situations of 
danger, or tread in the paths of glory. They 
will not be found in your service, which, in 
our own days, emulates on another element 
the superior fame of the Macedonian pha- 
lanx, or of the Roman legion, and which has 
lately made the shores of Europe and of Afri- 
ca resound with the shouts of victory, from 
the Texel to the Tagus, and from the Tagus 
to the Nile. 



The works of Burns will be received fa- 
vourably by one who stands in the foremost 
rank of this noble service, and who deserves 
his station. On the land or on the sea, I 
know no man more capable of judging of the 
character or of the writings of this original 
genius. Homer, and Shakspeare, and Os- 
sian, cannot always occupy your leisure. — 
These volumes may sometimes engage your 
attention, while the steady breezes of the tro- 
pic swell your sails, and in another quarter of 
the earth charm you with the strains of na- 
ture, or awake in your memory the scenes of 
your early days. Suffer me to hope that they 
may sometimes recall to your mind the friend 
who addresses you, and who bids you — most 
affectionately^ — adieu ! 



J. CURRIE. 



Liverpool, \st May, 1800. 



'^ 



TO THE 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE, Slc 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 

ON THE CHARACTER !lND CONDITION OF THE 
SCOTTISH PEASANTRY. 

Effects of the legal establishment of parochial 
schools, I. — Of the church establishment, 
2. — Of the absence of poor laws, 3. — Of the 
Scottish music and national songs, 5. — Of 
the laws respecting marriage and inconti- 
nence, ib. — Observations on the domestic 
and national attachments of tiie Scots, p. 6. 

LIFE OF BURNS. 

Narrative of his infancy and youth, by him- 
self, 9. — Narrative on the same subject, by 
his brother, and by Mr. Murdoch of Lon- 
don, his teacher, 14. — Other particulars of 
Burns while resident in Ayrshire, 23. — 
History of Burns while resident in Edin- 
burgh, including Letters to the Editor from 
Mr. Stewart and Dr. Adair, 30. — History 
of Burns while on the farm of Ellisland, in 
Dumfriesshire, 44. — History of Burns while 
resident at Dumfries, 47. — His last illness, 
Death and Character, with general Reflec- 
tions ...51 

Memoir respecting Burns, by a Lady ....59 
Criticism on the Writings of Burns, includ- 
ing observations on poetry in the Scot- 
tish dialect, and some remarks on Scot- 
tish literature 62 

GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 

LETTERS. 

J^o. Page 

1. To Mr. John Murdoch, Burns's 
forrner teacher ; giving an account 
of his present studies, and temper of 
mind 80 

2. Extracts from MSS. Observations 

on various subjects 81 

3. To Mr. Aiken. Written under dis- 

tress of mind 83 

4. To Mrs. Dunlop. Thanks for her no- 

tice Praise of her ancestor, Sir 
William Wallace 84 

5. To Mrs. Stewart of Stair. Enclosing- 

a poem on Miss A 85 

23 



No\ Page 

6. Proclamation in the name of the 

Muses 85 

7. Dr. Blacklock to the Rev. G. Low- 

rie. Encouraging the bard to visit 
Edinburgh, and print a new edition 
of his poems there ib. 

8. From the Rev. Mr. Lowrie. Advice 

to the Bard how to conduct himself 
in Edinburgh 80 

9. To Mr. Chalmers. Praise of Miss 

Burnet of Monboddo ib. 

10. To the Earl of Eghnton. Thanks 

for his patronage 87 

11. To Mrs. Dunlop. Account of his si- 

tuation in Edinburgh ib. 

12. To Dr. Moore. Grateful acknow- 

ledgments of Dr. M.'s notice of him 

in his letters to Mrs. Dunlop 88 

13. From Dr. Moore. In answer to the 

foregoing, and enclosing a sonnet 

on the Bard by Miss WilUams ib. 

14. To the Rev. G Lowrie. Thanks for 

advice — reflections on his situation; 

compliments paid to Miss L , 

by Mr. Mackenzie 89 

15. To Dr. Moore ib. 

16. From Dr. Moore. Sends tlie Bard a 

present of his " View of Society and 
Manners," &c 90 

17. To the Earl of Glencairn. Grateful 

acknowledgments of kindness. .. ., ib. 

18. To the Earl of Buchan. In reply to 

a letter of advice 91 

19. Extract concerning the monument 

erected for Fergusson by our Poet. ib. 

20. To — . Accompanying the foregoing 92 

21. Extract from . Good advice.... ib. 

22. To Mrs. Dunlop. Res|jectiiig his 

prospects on leaving Edinburgli.. . 9:* 

23. To the same. On the same subject 94 

24. To Dr. Moore. On the same subject ib. 

25. Extract to Mrs. Dunlop. Reply to 

Criticisms ib. 

26. To the Rev. Dr. Blair. Written on 

leaving Edinburgh. Thanks for his 
kindness ib. 

27. From Dr. Blair. In reply to the pre- 

ceding 95 

28. From Dr. Moore. Criticism and good 

advice. ib. 



VI 



CONTENTS. 



103 



No. Page 

2L> To Mr. Walker, at Blair of Athole. 
Enclosing the Humble Petition of 
Bruar water to the Duke of Athole . . 96 

30 To Mr. G. Burns. Account of his 

Tour through the Highlands 97 

31 From Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre. 

Enclosing Latin Inscriptions with 
Translations, and the Tale ofOme- 
ron Cameron ib. 

32 Mr. Ramsay to the Rev. W. Young. 

Introducing our Poet. 99 

33 Mr. Ramsay to Dr. Blacklock. Anec- 

dotes of Scottish Songs for our Poet 100 

34 From Mr. John Murdoch in London. 

In answer to No. I ib. 

35 From Mr. , Gordon Castle. 

Acknowledging a song sent to Lady 
Charlotte Gor^don 101 

36 From the Rev. J. Skinner. Some Ac- 

count of Scottish Poems ib. 

37 From Mrs. Rose. Enclosing Gaelic 

Songs, with the music 102 

38 To the Earl of Glencairn. Requests 

his assistance in getting into the ex 
cise 

39 To — Dalrymple, Esq. Congratula- 

tion on his becoming a poet. Praise 

of Lord Glencairn ib. 

40 ToSir JohnWhitefoord. Thanks for 

friendship. Reflections on the po- 
etical character ib. 

41 To Mrs. Dunlop. Written on recov- 

ery from sickness. 104 

42 Extract to the Same. Defence of 

himself ib. 

43 To the Same — who had heard that he 

had ridiculed iier ib. 

44 To Mr. Cleghorn. Mentioning his 

having composed the first stanza of 
the Chevalier's Lament 105 

45 From Mr Cleghorn. In reply to the 

above. The Chevalier's Lament in 
full, in a note ib. 

46 To Mrs. Dunlop. Giving an account 

ofhis prospects ib. 

47 From the Rev. J. Skinner. Enclos- 
• ing two songs, one by himself, the 

other by a Buchan ploughman : the 
songs printed at large 106 

48 To Professor D. Stuart. Thanks for 

his friendship 107 

49 Extract to Mrs. Dunlop. Remarks 

on Dryden's Virgil, and Pope's 
Odyssey , ib. 

50 To the same. General Reflections. 108 

51 To the Same, at Mr. Dunlop's, Had- 

dington. Account of his marriage., ib. 

52 To Mr. P. Hill. With a present of 

cheese 109 

53 To Mrs. Dunlop. With lines on a 

hermitage 110 

54 To the Same. Farther account of his 

marriage ib. 

55 To the same. Reflections on human 

life Ill 

56 To R. Graham, Esq. ofFintry. A 



No. Page 
petition in verse for a situation in 
the excise 112 

57 To Mr. P. Hill. Criticism on a poem 

entitled, ' An address to Loch-Lo- 
mond' ^ ib. 

58 To Mrs. Dunlop, at Moreham Mains 113 

59 To . Defence of the Family of 

the Stuarts. Baseness of insulting 

fallengreatness 114 

CO To Mrs. Dunlop. With the song— 

" Go fetch to me a pint of wine." 115 

61 To Miss Davies, a young lady, who 

had heard he had been making a bal- 
lad on her, enclosing that ballad.... ib. 

62 From Mr G Burns. Reflections sug- 

gested by New Year's Day 116 

63 To Mrs. Dunlop. Reflections sug- 

gested by New Year's Day ib. 

64 To Dr. Moore. Account of his situa- 

tion and prospects 117 

65 To Professor D. Stewart. Enclosing 

poems for his criticism ib. 

66 To Bishop Geddes. Account of his 

situation and prospects 118 

67 From the Rev. P. Carfrae Request- 

ing advice as to the publishing Mr. 
Mylne's poems 119 

68 To Mrs. Dunlop. Reflections after 

a visit to Edinburgh ib. 

69 To the Rev. P. Carfrae. In answer 

to No. 07 120 

70 To Dr. Moore. Enclosing a poem., ib. 

71 To Mr. Hill. Apostrophe to Fru- 

gality 121 

72 To Mrs. Dunlop. With a sketch of 

an epistle in verse to the Right Hon. 

C. J. Fox 122 

73 To Mr. Cunningham. With the first 

draught of the poem on a wounded 
hare ib. 

74 From Dr Gregory. Criticism of the 

poem on a wounded hare ... 123 

75 To Mr.M Auley of Dumbarton. Ac- 

count of his situation ib. 

76 To Mrs. Dunlop. Reflections on Re- 

ligion 124 

77 From Dr. Moore. Good advice.... ib. 

78 From Miss J. Little. A poetess in 

humble life, with a poem in praise 

of our Bard 125 

79 From Mr. . Some account of 

Fergusson . . 126 

80 To Mr. . In answer ib. 

81 To Miss Williams Enclosing a cri- 

ticism on a poem of hers 127 

82 From Miss W. in reply to the fore- 

going lb. 

83 To Mrs. Dunlop. Praise of Zeluco.. 128 

84 From Dr. Blacklock. An epistle in 

verse ib. 

85 To Dr. Blacklock. Poetical reply to 

the above 129 

86 To R. Graham, Esq. Enclosing 

some electioneering ballads ib. 

87 To Mrs. Dunlup. Serious and inter- 

esting reflections • • • ib. 



CONTENTS. 



Ml 



No. Page 

88 To Sk" John Sinclair, Account of a 

book society among the farmers in 
Nithsdale 130 

89 To -Charles Sharpe, Esq. of Hod- 

dam. Under a fictitious signature, 
enclosing a ballad 131 

90 To Mr. G. Burns. With a prologue, 

spoken at the Dumfries Theatre.. . 132 

91 To Mrs. Dunlop. Some account of 

Falconer, author of the Shipwreck, ib. 

92 From Mr. Cunningham. Inquiries 

after our Bard 133 

93 To Mr. Cuningham. In reply to the 

above 134 

94 To Mr. Hill. Orders for books .... 135 

95 To Mrs. Dunlop. Remarks on the 

Lounger, and on the writings of 
Mr. Mackenzie ib. 

96 From Mr. Cunningham. Account of 

the death of Miss Burnet of Mon- 
boddo 136 

97 To Dr. Moore. Thanks for a present 

ofZeluco.... ,. 137 

98 To Mrs. Dunlop. Written under 

wounded pride ib. 

99 To Mr. Cunningham. Aspirations 

after independence 138 

100 From Dr. Blacklock. Poetical let- 

ter of friendship ib. 

101 Extract from Mr. Cunningham. — 

Suggesting subjects for our Poet's 
miise ib. 

102 To Mrs. Dunlop. Congratulations 

on the birth of her grandson 139 

103 To Mr. Cunningham. With an ele- 

gy on Miss Burnet, of Monboddo . . ib. 

104 To Mr. Hill. Indignant apostrophe 

to Poverty 140 

105 From A. F. Tytler, Esq. Criticism 

on Tam o'Shanter ib. 

106 To A. F. Tytler, Esq. In reply to 

the above 141 

107 To Mrs Dunlop. Enclosing his 

elegy on Miss Burnet ib. 

108 To Lady W. M. Constable. Ack- 

nowledging a present of a snuffbox 142 

109 To Mrs. Graham of Fintry. Enclos- 

ing ' Queen Mary's Lament.' ib. 

110 From the Rev. G. Baird. Request- 

ing assistance in publishing the 
poems of Michael Bruce ib. 

111 To the Rev. G. Baird. In reply to 

the above 143 

112 To Dr. Moore. Enclosing Tam o' 

Shanter, &.c ib. 

113 From Dr. Moore. With Remarks 

on Tam o' Shanter, &c 144 

114 To the Rev. A. Alison, Acknow- 

ledging his present of the ' Essays 
on the Principles of Taste,' with 
remarks on the book 145 

115 To Mr. Cunningham. With a Ja- 

cobite song, &c 146 

116 To Mrs. Dunlop. Comparison be- 

tween female attractions in high 
and humble life ib. 



No. Pack 

117 To Mr. . Reflections on his own 

indolence 147 

118 To Mr. Cunningham. Requesting 

his interest for an oppressed friend ib. 

119 From the Earl of Buchan. Jnviting 

over our Bard to the Coronation of 
the Bu.st of Thomson on Ednam 
Hill ib. 

120 To the Earl of Buchan. In reply.. 148 

121 From the Earl of Buchan. Propos- 

ing a subject for our Poet's 
muse ib. 

122 To Lady E. Cunningham. Enclos- 

ing ' The Lament For James, Earl 

of Glencairn.' ib. 

123 To Mr. Ainslie. State of his mind 

after inebriation 149 

124 FromSir John Whitefoord. Thanks 

for ' The Lament for James, Earl 

of Glencairn,' ib, 

125 From A. F. Tytler, Esq. Criticism 

on the Whistle and the Lament,, ib. 

126 To Miss Davies. Apology for neg- 

lecting her commands — moral re- 
flections 1,jO 

127 To Mrs.' Dunlop. Enclosino- ' The 

Song of Death.' 151 

128 To Mrs. Dunlop. Acknowledging 

the present of a cup ib. 

129 To Mr. William Smellie. Introduc- 

ing Mrs. Riddel 152 

130 To Mr. W. Nicol. Ironical thanks 

for advice ib. 

131 To Mr. Cunningham. Commissions 

his arms to be cut on a seal — moral 
reflections 153 

132 To Mrs. Dunlop. Account of his 

meeting with Miss L B- 

and enclosing a song on her 154 

133 To Mr. Cunningham. Wild apos- 

trophe to a Spirit ! 155 

134 To Mrs. Dunlop. Account of his 

family 156 

135 To Mrs Dunlop. Letter of condo- 

lence under affliction 157 

136 To Mrs. Dunlop. With a poem, en- 

titled ' The Rights of Woman.'., ib. 

137 To Miss B of York. Letter of 

friendship 158 

138 To Miss C . Character and tem- 

perament of a poet ib. 

139 To John M'Murdo, Esq. Repay- 

ing money 159 

140 To Mrs. R . Advising her what 

play to bespeak at the Dumfries 
Theatre ib. 

141 To a Lad3^ in favour of a Player's 

Benefit ib. 

142 Extract to Mr. . On his pros- 

pects in the excise 160 

143 To Mrs R ib. 

144 Tothe Same. Describing his melan- 

choly feelings ib. 

145 To the Same. Lending Werter.. J6l 

146 To the Same. On a return of in- 

terrupted friendship ib. 



Vlll 



CONTENTS. 



No. Page 

147 To the Same. On a temporary 

estrangement 161 

148 To John Syme, Esq. Reflections on 

the happiness of Mr. O ib. 

J 49 To Miss . Requesting the re- 
turn of MSS. lent to a deceased 
friend 162 

150 To Mr. Cunningham. Melancholy 
reflections — cheering prospects of 
a happier world ib. 

1-51 To Mrs. R . Supposed to be 

written from ' The dead to the 
living.' 163 

152 To Mrs. Dunlop. Reflections on 

the situation of his family if he 
should die — praise of the poem en- 
titled 'The Task.' 164 

153 To the Same, in London ib. 

154 To Mrs. R . Thanks for the 

Travels of Anacharsis 165 

155 To Mrs. Dunlop. Account of the 

Death of his Daughter, and of his 
own ill health ib. 

156 To Mrs. R . Apology for not 

going to the birth-night assembly. 166 

157 To Mr. Cunningham. Account of 

his illness and of his poverty — an- 
ticipation of his death ib. 

158 To Mrs. Burns. Sea-bathing af- 
fords little relief -- • ib. 

159 To Mrs. Dunlop. Last farewell .. 167 

CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN MR. THOMSON 
AND MR. BURNS. 

1 Mr. Thomson to Mr. Burns. De- 

siring the Bard to furnish verses 
for some of the Scottish airs, and 
to revise former songs 168 

2 Mr. B. to Mr. T. Tromising as- 

sistance 169 

3 Mr. T. to Mr. B. Sending some 

tunes ib. 

4 Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' The Lea 

Rig,' and * Will ye go the Indies, 
my Mary.' 170 

5 Mr. B. to Mr. T. With 'My wife's a 

winsome wee thing,' and ' O saw 
ye bonnie Leslie.' 17t 

6 Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ♦ Highland 

Mary.' 172 

7 Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks and criti- 

cal observations ib. 

8 Mr. B. to Mr. T. With an additional 

stanza to ' The Lea Rig.' 173 

9 Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Auld Rob 

Morris,' and ' Duncan Gray.' ib. 

10 Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' O Poortith 

Cauld,' &c. and ' Galla Water.' . . ib. 

11 Mr. T. to Mr. B. Desiring anecdotes 

on the origin of particular songs. 
Tytler of Woodhouselee — Pleyel — 
sends P. Pindar's ' Lord Gregory.' 
— Postscript from the Honourable 
A . EVekine 174 



No. Page 

12 Mr. B. to Mr. T. Has Mr. Ty tier's 

anecdotes, and means to give his 
own — Sends his own * Lord Gre- 
gory,' 174 

13 Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Mary 

Morrison,' 175 

14 Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Wandering 

Willie,' ib. 

15 Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Open the 

door to me, oh !' 176 

16 Mr. B to Mr. T. With ' Jessy,'. . . ib. 

17 Mr. T. to Mr. B. With a list of songs, 

and * Wandering Willie' altered. . ib. 

18 Mr. B. to Mr. T. ' When wild war's 

■deadly blast wasblawn,' and * Meg 
o' the Mill,' ib. 

19 Mr. B. to Mr. T. Voice of Coila— 

Criticism — Origin of The Lasso' 
Patie's Mill,' .. 177 

20 Mr. T. to Mr. B 178 

21 Mr. B. to Mr. T. Simplicity requisite 

in a song — One poet should not 
mangle the works of another ib. 

22 Mr. B. to Mr. T. ' Farewell thou 

stream that winding flows. *^ — 
Wishes that the national music 
may preserve its native features . . -179 

23 Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks and obser- 

vations . ib. 

24 Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Blithe hae 

I been on yon hill,' 180 

25 Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' O Logan 

sweetly didst thou glide,' ' O gin 
my love were yon red rose,' &c . . ib. 

26 Mr. T. to Mr. B. Enclosing a note- 

Thanks 181 

27 Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' There was 

a lass, and she was fair,' ib. 

28 Mr. B. to Mr. T. Hurt at the idea of 

pecuniary recompense — Remarks 

on songs ib. 

29 Mr. T. to Mr. B. Musical expression 182 

30 Mr. B. to Mr. T. For Mr. Clarke., ib. 

31 Mr. B to Mr. T. With ' Phillis the 

Fair,' ib. 

32 Mr. T. to Mr. B. Mr. Allan— draw- 

ing from ' John Anderson my Jo,' 183 

33 Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Had T a 

cave,' &c. — Some airs common to 
Scotland and Ireland ib. 

34 Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' By Allan 

stream I chanced to rove,' 184 

35 Mr. B. to Mr. T. With* Whistle and 

I'll come to you my lad,' and ' Awa 
wi' your belles and your beauties,' ib. 

36 Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Come let 

me take thee to my breast,' ib. 

37 Mr. B. to Mr. T. * Dainty Davie,'. 185 

38 Mr. T. to Mr. B. Delighted with the 

productions of Burns's muse ..... ib. 

39 Mr. B. to Mr. T. With « Bruce to his 

troops at Bannockburn,' ib. 

40 Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Behold the 

hour, the boat arrive,' 186 

41 Mr. T. to Mr. B. Observations on 

' Bruce to his troops,' ib. 



CONTENTS. 



IX 



No, Page 

42 Mr. B to Mr. T. Remarks on songs 

in Mr. T.'s list — His own method 
of forming a song — ' 1 hou hast left 
me ever, Jamie' — ' Where are the 
joys I hae met in the morning,' — 
* Auld lang syne,' 187 

43 Mr. B, to Mr. T. With a variation of 

' Bannockburn,' 188 

44 Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks and obser- 

vations I8i^ 

45 Mr, B. to Mr. T. On ' Bannockburn' 

— sends * Fair Jenny,' ib. 

46 Mr. B. to Mr T. With ' Deluded 

swain, the pleasure' — Remarks. . . , 190 

47 Mr. B to Mr. T. With • 'J'hine am I, 

my faithful fair,' — * O condescend 
dear charming maid' — ' The Night- 
ingale' — * Laura' — (the three last 
by G. Turnbull) ib. 

48 Mr. T. to Mr. B. Apprehensions- 

Thanks 192 

49 Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Husband, 

husband, cease your strife !" and 

' Wilt thou be my dearie .'" ib. 

50 Mr. T. to Mr. B. Melancholy com- 

parison between Burns and Carli- 
ni — Mr. Allan h s begun a sket« h 
from the Cotter's Saturday Night, ib. 

51 Mr. B to Mr. T. Praise of Mr. Al- 

lan — * Banks >f Cree,' ib. 

52 Mr. B. to Mr. T. Pleyel in France 

— ' Here, where the Scottish muse 
immortal lives,' presented to Miss 
Graham of Fintry, with a copy of 
Mr. Thomson's Collection 193 

53 Mr. T. to Mr. B. Does not expect to 

hear from Pleyel soon, but desires 

to be prepared with the poetry... ib. 

54 Mr B. to Mr. T. With ' On the seas 

and far away,' ib. 

55 Mr T. to Mr. B. Criticism ib. 

56 Mr. B. to Mr T. With ' Ca' the 

yowes to the knowes.' 194 

57 Mr. B.toMr. T. With ' She says she 

lo'es me best of a',' — ' O let me in,' 
(fee. — Stanza to Dr. Maxwell ib. 

58 Mr. T. to Mr. B. Advising him to 

write a Musical Drama 195 

59 Mr. T. to Mr. B. Has been examin- 

ing Scottish collections — Ritson — 
Difficult to obtain ancient melodies 
in their original state ib. 

60 Mr. B. to Mr. T. Recipe for pro- 

ducing a love-song — ' Saw ye my 
Phely' — Remarks and anecdotes — 
' How long and dreary is the night' 
— ' Let not woman e'er complain' 
— ' The Lover's Morning Salute to 
his Mistress' — ' The Auld man' — 
' Keen blows the wind o'er Donocht 
head,' in a note 196 

61 Mr. T. to Mr. B. Wishes he knew 

the inspiring fair one — Ritson's 
Historical Essay not interesting — 
Allan— Maggie Lawder 198 

62 Mr. B. to Mr. T. Has begun his 



No. Page 
Anecdotes, &c. ' My Chloris mark 
how green the groves' — Love — * It 
was the charming month of May' 
* Lassie wi' the lint white locks'— 
History of the air • Ye banks and 
braes o' bonnie Doon' — James Mil- 
ler — Clarke — The black keys — In- 
stances of the difficulty of tiacing 
the origin of ancient airs 198' 

63 Mr. T. to Mr. B. With three copies 

of the Scottish airs 200 

64 Mr B. to Mr T. With ' O PhiUy 

happy be that day' — Starting note 
— ' Contented wi' little, and cantie 
wi' mair' — ' Canst thou leave me 
thus, my Katy." — (The Reply, 
' Stay my Willie, yet believe me,' 
in a note,) — Stock and horn ib. 

65 Mr. T to Mr. B. Praise— Desires 

more songs of the humorous cast — 
Means to have a picture from the 
Soldiei 's return,' 202 

66 Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' My Nan- 

nie's awa,' ib, 

67 Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' For a' that 

an' a' that,' and ' Sweet fa's the 
eve on Craigie-burn,' 203 

68 Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks ib. 

69 Mr. B. to Mr. T. ' O lassie, art thou 

sleeping yet.^' and the Answer.... ib, 

70 Mr. B. to Mr. T. Dispraise of Ec- 

clefechan , ib, 

71 Mr. T. to Mr. B Thanks 204 

72 Mr B to Mr. T. ' Address to the 

Woodlark'— ' On Chloris' being ill' 
— ' Their groves o' sweet myrtle,' 
&c. — ' 'Twas na her bonnie blue 
e'e,' &c ib, 

73 Mr. T. to Mr. B With Allan's de- 

sign from ' The Cotter's Saturday 
Night,' ib, 

74 Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' How cruel 

are the parents,' and ' Mark yonder 
pomp of costly fashion,' 205 

75 Mr. B. to Mr. T. Thanks for Allan's 

designs ib. 

76 Mr. T. to Mr. B. Compliment ib, 

77 Mr. B.toMr T, With an improve- 

ment in ' Whistle and I'll come to 
you my lad,' — ' O this is no my ain 
lassie,' — ' Now spring has clad the 
grove in green' — ' O bonnie was 
yon rosy brier' — ' 'Tis Friendship's 
pledge my young fair Friend,'.... ib. 

78 Mr. T. to Mr, B. Introducing Dr. 

Brianton 206 

79 Mr. B, to Mr. T. ' Forlorn my love, 

no comfort near' 207 

80 Mr, B. to Mr. T. ' Last May a braw 

wooer cam down the lang glen' — 
' Why, why tell thy lover,' a frag- 
ment ib. 

81 Mr. T toMr. B ib, 

82 Mr T. to Mr B. After an awful 

pause ib. 

83 Mr, B. to Mr. T. Thanks for P. Pin- 



CONTENTS. 



No. Page 
dar, ifec — ' Hey for a lass wi' a to- 
cher' 207 

84 Mr. T. to Mr B. Allan has designed 

some plates for an octavo edition. 208 

85 Mr. B. to Mr. T. Afflicted by sick- 

ness, but pleased with Mr. Allan's 
etchings ib. 

86 Mr. T. to Mr. B. Sympathy, encou- 

ragement ib. 

87 Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Here's a 

health to ane I lo'e dear,' ib. 

88 Mr. B. to Mr. T. Introducing Mr. 

Lewars— Has taken a fancy to re- 
view his songs — Hopes to recover 209 

89 Mr. B. to Mr. T. Dreading the hor- 

rors of a jail, solicits the advance 
of five pounds, and encloses * Fair- 
est Maid on Devon banks/ ib. 



No. Page 

90 Mr. T. to Mr. B. Sympathy— Ad- 
vises a volume of poetry to be pub- 
lished by subscription — Pope pub- 
lished the Iliad so 209 

Letter containing some particulars of 
the History of the foregoing Poems, 
by Gilbert Burns 210 

Letter to Captain Grose 214 

APPENDIX. 

No. 1 216 

No. II. Including an extract of a Poem 

addressed to Burns by Mr. Telford 218 

No. III. Letter from Mr. Gilbert Burns 
to the Editor, approving of bis Life 
of his Brother ; with observations 
on the effects of refinement of taste 
on the labourins: classes of men . . 222 



PREFATORY REMARKS 



TO THE LIFE 



OF 



ROBERT BURNS. 



Though the dialect in which many of the 
happiest effusions of Robert Burns are 
composed, be peculiar to Scotland, yet his 
reputation has extended itself beyond the 
limits of that country, and his poetry has 
been admired as the offspring of original 
genius, by persons of taste in every part of 
the sister islands The interest excited by 
his early death, and the distress of his infant 
family, have been felt in a remarkable man- 
ner wherever his writings have been known : 
and these posthumous volumes, which give 
to the world his works complete, and which, 
it is hoped, may raise his widow and children 
from penury, are printed and published in 
England It seems proper, therefore, to 
write the memoirs of his life, not with the 
view of their being read by Scotchmen only, 
but also by natives of England, and of other 
countries w^here the English language is 
spoken or understood. 

Robert Burns was, in reality, what he 
has been represented to be, a Scottish pea- 
sant. To render the incidents of his hum- 
ble story generally intelligible, it seems, 
therefore, advisable to prefix some obser- 
vations on the character and situation of 
the order to which he belonged — a class 
of men distinguished by many peculiari- 
ties : by this means we shall form a more 
correct notion of the advantages with which 
he started, and of the obstacles which he 
surmounted. A few observations on the 
Scottish peasantry will not, perhaps, be 
found unworthy of attention in other re- 
spects ; and the subject is, in a great mea- 
sure, new. Scotland has produced persons 
of high distinction in every branch of phi- 
losophy and literature ; and her history, 
while a separate and independent nation, 
has been successfully explored. But 'he 
present character of the people was not 
then formed ; the nation then presented 
features similar to those vvhich the feudal 
system and the catholic religion had diffused 



over Europe, modified, indeed, by the pecu- 
liar nature of her territory and climate. 
The Reformation, by which such important 
changes were produced on the national 
character, was speedily followed by the ac- 
cession of the Scottish monarchs to the 
English throne ; and the period which 
elapsed from that accession to the Union, 
has been rendered memorable, chiefly, by 
those bloody convulsions in which both 
divisions of the island were involved, and 
which, in a considerable degree, concealed 
from the eye of the historian, the domestic 
history of the people, and the gradual vari- 
ations in their condition and manners. 
Since the Union, Scotland, though the 
seat of two unsuccessful attempts to re- 
store the House of Stuart to the throne, 
has enjoyed comparative tranquillity ; and 
it is since this period that the present cha- 
racter of her peasantry has been in a great 
measure formed, though the political causes 
affecting it are to be traced to the previous 
acts of her separate legislature. 

A slight acquaintance with the peasantry 
of Scotland will serve to convince an un- 
prejudiced observer, thai they possess a de- 
gree of intelligence not generally found 
among the same class of men in the other 
countries of Europe. In the very humblest 
condition of the Scottish peasants, every 
one can read, and most persons are more 
or less skilled in writing and arithmetic ; 
and, under the disguise of their uncouth 
appearance, and of their peculiar manners 
and dialect, a stranger will discover that 
they possess a curiosity, and have obtained 
a degree of information, corresponding to 
these acquirements. 

These advantages they owe to the legal 
provision made by the parliament of Scot- 
land, in 164G, for the establishment of a 
school in every parish throughout the king- 
dom, for the express purpose of educating 



2 



PRKFATORY UEMARK55. 



the poor •. a law which may challenge com- 
parison with any act of legislation to be 
found in the records of history, whether 
we consider the wisdom of the ends m view, 
the simplicity of the means employed, or 
the provisions made to render these means 
effectual to their purpose. This excellent 
statute was repedled on the accession ot 
Charles II. in 166'\ together with all the 
other laws passed during the commonwealth, 
as not being sauc tioned by the royal assent. 
It slept during the reigns of Charles and 
James, but was re-enacted, precisely in the 
same terms, by the Scottish parliamerit 
after the revolution, in 1696; and this is 
the last provision on the subject. Its effects 
on the national character may be considered 
to have commenced about the period of the 
Union; and doubtless it co-operated with 
the peace and security arisi' g from that 
happy event, in producing the extraordinary 
change in favour of industry and Jood mo- 
rals, which the character of the common 
people of Scotland has since undergone.* 

The church-estdbhshment of Scotland ] 
happily coincides with the institution just ; 
mentioned, which may be called its school j 
establishment. The clergyman being every | 
where resident in his particular parish, be- , 
comes the natural patron and superintend- 
ent of the parish school, and is enabled m ^ 
various ways to promote the comfort of the 
teacher, and the proficiency of the scholars. 
The teacher himself is often a candidate 
for holy orders, who, during the long course 
of study and probation required in the Scot- 
tish church, renders the time which can be 
spared from his professional studies, useful 
to others as well as to himself, by assuming 
the respectable character of a schoolmaster. 
It is common for the established schools, 
even in the country parishes of Scotland, 
to enjoy the means of classical instruction ; 
and many of the farmers, and some even of 
the cottagers, subuat to much privation, 
that they may obtain, for one of their sons 
at least, the precarious advantage of a learn- 
ed education The difficulty to be surmount- 
ed arises, indeed, not from the expense of 
instructing their children, but from the 
charge of supporting them. In the country 
parish schools, the English language, wri- 
ting, and accounts, are generally taught at 
the rate of six shillings, and Latin at the 
rate of ten or twelve shillings per annum. 
In the towns, the prices are somewhat 
higher. 

It would be improper in this place to in- 
quire minutely into the degree of instruction 
received at these seminaries, or to attempt 
any precise estimate of its effects, either on 
the individuals who are the subjects of this 

* See Appendix, No. 1, Note A. 



instruction, or on the community to which 
they belong. That it is on the whole favour- 
able to industry and morals, though doubt- 
less with some individual exceptions, seems 
to be proved by the most striking and deci- 
sive appearance ; and it is equally clear, 
that it is the cause of that spirit of emigra- 
tion and of adventure so prevalent among 
the Scotch. Knowledge has, by Lord Ve- 
rulam, been denominated power ; by others 
it has with less propriety been denominated 
virtue or happiness : we may with confi- 
dence consider it aa motion. A human 
being, in proportion as he is informed, has 
his wishes enlarged, as well as the means of 
gratifying those wishes. He may be con- 
sidered as taking within the sphere of his 
vision a large portion of the globe on which 
we tread, and discovering advantage at a 
greater distance on its surface. His desires 
or ambition, once excited, are stimulated by 
his imagination ; and distant and uncertain 
objects, giving freer scope to the operation 
of this faculty, often acquire, in the mind 
of the youthful adventurer, an attraction 
from their very distance and uncertainty. 
If, therefore, a greater degree of instruction 
be given to the peasantry of a country com- 
paratively poor, in the neighbourhood of 
other countries rich in natural and acquired 
advantages ; and if the barriers be removed 
that kept them separate, emigration from 
the former to the latter will take place to a 
certain extent, by laws nearly as uniform as 
those by which heat diffuses itself among 
surrounding bodies, or water finds its level 
when left tc its natural course. By the 
articles of the Union, the barrier was broken 
down which divided the two British nations, 
and knowledge and poverty poured the ad- 
venturous natives of the North over the 
fertile plains of England ; and more especial- 
ly, over the colonies which she had settled 
in the East and West. The stream of popu- 
lation continues to flow from the North to 
the South ; for the causes that originally 
impelled it, continue to operate ; and the 
richer country is constantly invigorated by 
the accession of an informed and hardy race 
of men, educated in poveity, and prepared 
for hardship and danger ; patient of labour, 
and prodigal of life,* 

The preachers of the Reformation in 
Scotland were disciples of Calvin, and 
brought with them the temper as well as 
the tenets of that celebrated heresiarch. 
The presbyterian form ot worship and of 

I church government was endeared to the 
people, from its being established by them- 

I selve.s. It was endeared to them, also, by 
the struggle it had to maintain with the Ca- 
tholic and the Protestant episcopal cliurch- 
es ; over both of wjiich, after a hundred 

* See Appendix, No. 1, Note B. 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



3 



years of fiercQ and sometimes bloody con- 
tention, it finally triumphed, receiving the 
countenance of government, and the sanc- 
tion of law. During this long period of 
contention and of suftering, the temper of 
the people became more and more obstinate 
and bigoted : and the nation received that 
deep tinge of fanaticism which coloured 
their public transactions, as well as their 
private virtues, and of which evident traces 
may be found in our own times. When the 
public schools were established, the instruc- 
tion communicated in them partook of the 
religious character of the people. The Ca- 
techism of the Westminster Divines was 
the universal school-book, and was put into 
the hands of the young peasant as soon as 
he had acquired a knowledge of his alpha- 
bet ; and his first exercise in the art of read- 
ing, introduced him to the most mysterious 
doctrines of the Christian faith. This prac- 
tice is continued in our own times. After 
the Assembly's Catechism, the Proverbs of 
Solomon, and the New and Old Testament, 
follow in regular succession ; and the scholar 
departs, gifted with the knowledge of the 
sacred writings, and receiving their doc- 
trmes accordnig to the mterpretation of the 
Westminster Confession of Faith. Thus, 
with the instruction of infancy in the schools 
of Scotland are blended the dogmas of the 
national church ; and hence the first and 
most constant exercise of ingenuity among 
the peasantry of Scotland is displayed in 
religious disputation, AVith a strong at- 
tachment to the national creed, is conjoined 
a bigoted preference of certain forms of 
worship; the source of which would be often 
altogether obscure, if we did not recollect 
that the ceremonies of the Scottish Church 
were framed in driect opposition, in every 
point, to those of the church of Rome. . 

The eccentricities of conduct, and singu- 
larities of opinion and manners, which cha- 
racterized the English sectaries in the last 
century, afforded a subject for the comic 
muse of Butler, whose pictures lose their 
interest since their archetypes are lost. 
Some of the peculiarities common among 
the more rigid disciples of Calvinism in 
Scotland, in the present times, have given 
scope to the ridicule of Burns, whose hu- 
mour is equal to Butler's, and whose draw- 
ings from living manners are singularly 
expressive and exact. Unfortunately the 
correctness of his taste did not always cor- 
respond with the strength of his genius ; 
and hence some of the most exquisite of his 
comic productions are rendered unfit for 
the liffht.* 



* Holy WilHe's Prayer; Rob the Phynner's 
Welcprae to his Bastard Child j Epistle to J. 
Gowdie; the Holy Tulzie, &.c. 



The information and the religious educa- 
tion of the peasantry of Scotland, premote 
sedateness of conduct, and habits of thought 
and reflection. — These good qualities are 
not counteracted, by the establishment of 
poor laws, which, while they reflect credit 
on the benevolence, detract from the wis- 
dom of the English legislature. To make a 
legal provision for the inevitable distresses 
of the poor, who by age or disease are ren- 
dered incapable of labour, may indeed seem 
an indispensable duty of society ; and if, in 
the execution of a plan for this purpose, a 
distinction could be introduced, so as to ex- 
clude from its benefits those whose suffer- 
ings are produced by idleness or profligacy, 
such an institution would perhaps be as 
rational as humane. But to lay a general 
tax on property for the support of poverty, 
from whatever cause proceeding, is a mea- 
sure full of danger. It must operate in a 
considerable degree as an incitement to idle- 
ness, and a discouragement to industry. It 
takes away from vice and indolence the 
prospect of their most dreaded consequences, 
and from virtue and industry their pecu- 
liar sanctions. In many cases it must 
render the rise in the price of labour, not 
a blessing, but a curse to the labourer; 
who, if there be an excess in what he earns 
beyond his immediate necessities, may be 
expected to devote this excess to his present 
gratification ; trusting to the provision made 
by law for his own and his family's support, 
should disease suspend, or death terminate 
his labours. Happily, in Scotland, the same 
legislature which established a system of 
instruction for the poor, resisted the intro- 
duction of a legal provision for the support 
of poverty ; the establishment of the first, 
and the rejection of the last, were equally 
favorable to industry and good morals ; and 
hence it will not appear surprising, if the 
Scottish peasantry have a more than usual 
share of prudence and reflection, if they ap- 
proach nearer than persons of their order 
usually do, to the definition of a man, that 
of " a being that looks before and after." 
These observations must indeed be taken 
with manv exceptions : the favourable opera- 
tions of the causes just mentioned is coun- 
teracted by others of an opposite tendency ; 
and the subject, if fully examined, would 
lead to discussions of great extent. 

When the Reformation was established 
in Scotland, instrumental music was banish- 
ed from the churches, as savouring too much 
of "profane minstrelsy." Instead of being 
regulated by an instrument, the voices of 
the congregation are led and directed by a 
person under the name of a precentor; and 
the people are all expected to join in the 
tune which he chooses for the psalm which 
is to be sung. Church-music is therefore a 
part of the education of the peasantry ©f 



24 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



Scotland, in which they are usually instruct- 
ed in the long winter nights, by the parish 
schoolmaster, who is generally the precent- 
or, or by itinerant teachers more celebrated 
for their powers of voice. This branch of 
education had, in the last reign, fallen into 
some neglect, but was revived about thirty 
or forty years ago, when the music itself 
was reformed and improved. The Scottish 
system of psalmody is, however, radically 
bad. Destitute of taste or harmony, it 
forms a striking contrast with the delicacy 
and pathos of the profane airs. Our poet, 
it will be found, was taught church-music, 
in which, however, he made little proficiency. 

That dancing should also be very generally 
a part of the education of the Scottish pea- 
santry, will surprise those who have only seen 
this description of men : and still more 
those who reflect on the rigid spirit ot Cal- 
vinism with which the nation is so deeply 
affected, and to which this recreation is so 
strongly abhorrent. The winter is also the 
season whenthey acquire dancing, and indeed 
almost all their other instruction. They arc 
taught to dance by persons generally of their 
own number, many of whom work at daily 
labour during the summer months. The 
school is usually a barn, and the arena for 
the performers is generally a clay floor. The 
dome is lighted by candles stuck in one end 
of a cloven stick, the other end of which is 
thrust into the wall. Reels, strathspeys, coun- 
try-dances, and hornpipes, are here prac- 
tised. The jig, so much in favour among 
the English peasantry, has no place among 
them. The attachment of the people of 
Scotland, of every rank, and particularly of 
the peasantry, to this amusement, is very 
great. After the labours of the day are over, 
young men and women walk many miles, 
in the cold and dreary nights of winter, to 
these country-dancing schools ; and the in- 
stant that the violin sounds a Scottish air, 
fatigue seems to vanish, the toil-bent rustic 
becomes erect, his features brighten with 
sympathy ; every nerve seems to thrill with 
sensation, and every artery to vibrate with 
life. These rustic performers are indeed 
less to be admired for grace, than for agility 
and animation, and their accurate observance 
of time. Their modes of dancing, as well 
as their tunes, are common to every rank 
in Scotland, and are now generally known. 
In our own day they have penetrated into 
England, and have establishedjthemselves 
even in the circle of royalty. In another 
generation tliey will be established in every 
part of the island. 

The prevalence of this taste, or rather 
passion for dancing, among a people so deep- 
ly tinctured with tiie spirit and doctrines of 
Calvin, is one of those contradictions which 
the philosophic observer so often finds in 
national cjiaracter and manners. It is pro- 



bably to be ascribed to the Scottish musi<?/ 
which throughout all its varieties, is so full 
of sensibility ; and which, in its livelier 
strains, awakes those vivid emotions that 
find in dancing their natural solace and 
relief. 

This triumph of the music of Scotland over 
the spirit of the established religion, has net, 
however, been obtained without long con- 
tinued and obstinate struggles. The numer- 
ous sectaries who dissent from the estab- 
lishment on account of the relaxation which 
they perceive, or think they perceive, in the 
•hurch, from her original doctrines and dis- 
cipline, universally condemn the practice of 
dancing, and the schools where it is taught ; 
and the more elderly and serious part of the 
people, of every persuasion, tolerate rather 
than approve these meetings of the young of 
both sexes, where dancing is practised to 
their spirit-stirring music, where care is dis- 
pelled, toil is forgotten, and prudence itself 
is sometimes lulled to sleep. 

The Reformation, which proved fatal to 
the rise of the other fine arts in Scotland, 
probably impeded, but could not obstruct, 
the progress of its music: a circumstance 
that will convince the impartial inquirer, that 
this music not only existed previously to that 
sera, but had taken a firm hold of the nation 
thus affording a proof of its antiquity, strong- 
er than any produced by the researches of 
our antiquaries. 

The impression which the Scottish music 
has made on the people, is deepened by its 
union with the national songs, of which va- 
rious collections of unequal merit are before 
the public. These songs, like those of other 
nations, are many of them humorous ; but 
they chiefly treat of love, war, and drinking. 
Love is the subject of the greater propor- 
tion. Without displaying the higher pow- 
ers of the imagination, they exhibit a perfect 
knowledge of the human heart, and breathe 
a spirit of affection, and sometimes of deli- 
cate and romantic tenderness, not to be sur- 
passed in modern poetry, and which the 
more polished strains of antiquity have sel- 
dom possessed. 

The origin of this amatory character in 
the rustic muse of Scotland, or of the great- 
er number of these love-songs themselves, 
it would be difficult to trace ; they have ac- 
cumulated in the silent lapse of time, and it 
is now perhaps impossible to give an arrange- 
ment of them in the order of their date, 
valuable as such a record of taste and man- 
ners would be. Their present influence on 
the character of the nation is, however, great 
and striking. To them we must attribute, 
in a great measure, the romantic passion that 
so olton characterizes the attachments of 
the humblest of the people of Scotland, to a 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



degree that, if we mistake not, is seldom 
found in the same rank of society in other 
countries. The pictures of love and happi- 
ness exhibited in their rural songs, are early 
impressed on the mind of the peasant, and 
are rendered more attractive from the music 
with which they are united. They associate 
themselves with his own youthful emotions ; 
they elevate the object as well as the nature 
of his attachment ; and give to the impres- 
sions of sense, the beautiful colours of ima- 
gination. Hence, in the course of his pas- 
sion, a Scottish peasant often exerts a spirit 
of adventure, of which a Spanish cavalier 
need not be ashamed. After the labours of 
the day are over, he sets out for the habita- 
tion of his mistress, perhaps at many miles 
distance, regardless of the length or the 
dreariness of the way. He approaches her 
in secrecy, under the disguise of night. A 
signal at the door or window, perhaps agreed 
on, and understood by none but her, gives 
information of his arrival ; and sometimes 
it is repeated again and again, before the 
capricious fair one will obey the summons. 
But if she favours his addresses, she escapes 
unobserved, and receives the vows of her 
lover under the gloom of twilight, or the 
deeper shade of night. Interviews of this 
kind are the subjects of many of the Scot- 
tish songs, some of the most beautiful of 
which, Burns has imitated or improved. In 
the art which they celebrate, he was perfect- 
ly skilled; he knew and had practised all 
its mysteries. Intercourse of this sort is 
indeed universal, even in the humblest con- 
dition of man in every region of the earth. 
But it is not unnatural to suppose that it 
may exist in a greater degree, and in a more 
romantic form, among the peasantry of a 
country who are supposed to be more than 
commonly instructed ; who find in their ru- 
ral songs, expressions for their youthful 
emotions; and in v/hom the embers of pas- 
sion are continually fanned by the breathings 
of a music full of tenderness and sensibility. 
The direct influence of physical causes on 
the attachment between the sexes is com- 
paratively small, but it is modified by moral 
causes beyond any other affection of the 
mind. Of these, music and poetry are the 
chief. Among the snows of Lapland, and 
under the burning sun of Angola, the savage 
is seen hastening to his mistress, and every 
where he beguiles the weariness of his jour- 
ney with poetry and song.* 

In appreciating the happiness and virtue 
of a community, there is perhaps no single 

* The North American Indians, among whom 
the attachment between the sexes is said to 
be weak, and love, in the purer sense of the 
word, unknown, seem nearly unacquainted with 
the charms of poetry and music, — See WeWs 
Tour. 



criterion on which so much dependence may 
be placed, as the state of the intercourse 
between the sexes. Where this displays ar- 
dour of attachment, accompanied by purity 
of conduct, the character and the influence 
of women rise in society, our imperfect na- 
ture mounts in the scale of moral excellence, 
and, from the source of this single affection, 
a stream of felicity depends, which branches 
into a thousand rivulets that enrich and 
adorn the field of life. Where the attach- 
ment between the sexes sinks into an appe- 
tite, the heritage of our species is compara- 
tively poor, and man approaches the condi- 
tion oi the brutes that perish. "If we could 
with safety indulge the pleasing supj^osition 
that Fingal lived, and that Ossian sung,"* 
Scotland, judging from this criterion, might 
be considered as ranking high in happi- 
ness and virtue in very remote ages. To 
appreciate her situation by the same cri- 
terion in our own times, would be a delicate 
and a difficult undertaking. After consider- 
ing the probable influence of her popular 
songs and her national music, and examining 
how far the effects to be expected from 
these are supported by facts, the inquirer 
would also have to examine the influence 
of other causes, and particularly of her civil 
and ecclesiastical institutions, by which the 
character, and even the manners of a people, 
though silently and slowly, are often power- 
fully controlled. In the point of view in 
which we are considering the subject, the 
ecclesiastical estabhshments of Scotland 
may be supposed peculiarly favourable to 
purity of conduct. The dissoluteness of 
manners among the catholic clergy, which 
preceded, and in some measure produced 
the Reformation, led to an extraordinary 
strictness on the part of the reformers, and 
especially in that particular in which the 
licentiousness of the clergy had been carried 
to its greatest height — the intercourse be- 
tween the sexes. On this point, as on all 
others connected with austerity of manners, 
the disciples of Calvin assumed a greater 
severity than those of the Protestant episco- 
pal church. The punishment of illicit con- 
nexion between the sexes, was throughout 
all Europe, a province which the clergy as- 
sumed to themselves; and the church of 
Scotland, which at the Reformation renoun- 
ced so many powers and privileges, at that 
period took this crime under her more es- 
pecial jurisdiction.! Where pregnancy takes 
place without marriage, the condition of the 
female causes the discovery, and it is on her, 
therefore, in the first instance, that the 
clergy and elders of the church exercise 
their zeal. After examination before the 
kirk-scssion, touching the circumstances of 
her guilt, she must endure a public penance, 

* Gibbon, 
f Sec Appendix, No. 1, Note C, 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



and Bustain a public rebuke from the pulpit, 
for three Sabbaths successively, in the 
face of the congregation to which she be- 
longs, and thus have her weaknesa exposed, 
and her shame blazoned. The sentence is 
the same with respect to the male ; but how 
much lighter the punishment ! It is well 
known that this dreadful law, worthy of the 
iron minds of Calvin and of Knox, has often 
led to consequences, at the very mention of 
which, human nature recoils. 

While the punishment of incontinence 
prescribed by the institutions of Scotland 
is severe, the culprits have an obvious me- 
thod of avoiding it, aiforded them by the law 
respecting marriage, the validity of which 
requires neither the ceremonies of the 
church, nor any other ceremonies, but sim- 
ply the deliberate acknowledgment of each 
other as husband and wife, made by the 
parties before witnesses, or in any other 
way that gives legal evidence of such an 
acknowledgment having taken place. And 
as the parties themselves fix the date of 
their marriage, an opportunity is thus given 
to avoid the punishment, and repair the 
consequences of illicit gratification. Such 
a degree of laxity respecting so serious a 
contract might produce much confusion in 
the descent of propert}'^, without a still far- 
ther indulgence ; but the law of Scotland 
legitimating all children born before wed- 
lock, on the subsequent marriage of their 
parents, renders the actual date of the mar- 
riage itself of little consequence.* Mar- 
riages contracted in Scotland without the 
ceremonies of the church, are considered 
as irregular, and the parties usually submit 
to a rebuke for their conduct, in the face of 
their respective congregations, which is not 
however necessary to render the marriage 
valid. Burns, whose marriage, it will ap- 
pear, was irregular J does not seem to have 
undergone this part of the discipline of the 
church. 

Thus, though the institutions of Scotland 
are ia many particulars favourable to a con- 
duct among the peasantry founded on fore- 
sight and reflection, on the subject of mar- 
riage the reverse of this is true. Irregular 
marriages, it may be naturally supposed, 
are often improvident ones, in whatever 
rank of society they occur. The children 
of such marriages, poorly endowed by their 
parents, find a certain degree of instruction 
of easy acquisition ; but the comforts of 
life, and the gratifications of ambition, they 
find of more difiicult attainment in their na- 
tive soil : and thus the marriage laws of 
Scotland conspire with other circumstances, 
to produce that habit of emigration, and 
spirit of adventure, for which the people 
are so remarkable. 



* .See Appendix, No. 1, Note D, 



The manners and appearance of the Scot- 
tish peasantry do not bespeak to ^ stranger 
the degree of their cultivation. In their 
own country, their industry is inferior to 
that of the same description of men in the 
southern division of the island. Industry 
and the useful arts reached Scotland later 
than England ; and though their advance 
lias been rapid there, the effects produced 
are as yet far inferior both in reality and 
in appearance. The Scottish farmers have 
in general neither the opulence nor the 
comforts of those of England, neither vest 
the same capital in the soil, nor receive from 
it the same return. Their clothing, their 
food, and their habitations, are almost every 
where inferior.* Their appearance in these 
respects corresponds with the appearance of 
their country ; and under the operation of 
patient industry, both are improving. In- 
dustry and the useful arts came later into 
Scotland than into England, because the 
security of property came later. With 
causes of internal agitation and warfare, 
similar to those which occurred to the more 
southern nation, the people of Scotland were 
exposed to more imminent hazards, and 
more extensive and destructive spoliation, 
from external war. Occupied in the main- 
tenance of their independence against their 
more powerful neighbours, to this were ne- 
cessarily sacrificed the arts of peace, and at 
certain periods, the flower of their popula- 
tion. And when the union of the crowns 
produced a security from national wars with 
England, for the century succeeding, the 
civil wars common to both divisions of the 
island, and the dependence, perhaps the 
necessary dependence of the Scottish coun- 
cils on those of the more powerful kingdom, 
counteracted this disadvantage. Even the 
union of the British nations was not, from 
obvious causes, immediatel}'^ followed by all 
the benefits which it was ultimately destined 
to produce. At length, however, these be- 
nefits are distinctly felt, and generally ac- 
knowledged. Property is secure ; manufac- 
tures and commerce increasing ; and agri- 
culture is rapidly improving in Scotland. 
As yet, indeed, the farmers are not in gene- 
ral enabled to make improvements out of 
their own capitals, as in England ; but the 
landholders, who have seen and felt the ad- 
vantages resulting from them, contribute 
towards them with a liberal hand. Hence, 
property, as well as population, is accumula- 
ting rapidly on the Scottish soil ; and the 
nation, enjoying a great part of the bless- 
ings of Englishmen, and retaining" several 
of their own happy institutions, might be 

* Tiiese remarks are confined to the class 
of farmers ; the same corresponding inferiority 
will not be found in the condition of the cottagers 
and labourers, at least in the article of food, as 
those who exantine thi.s subject jnipartiallj' wilj 
soon discover. 



PREFATORY REMARKS* 



considered, if confidence can be placed in 
human foresight, to be as yet only in an 
early stage of their progress. Yet there 
are obstructions in their way. To the cul- 
tivation of the soil are opposed the extent 
and the strictness of the entails ; to the ini- 
provement of the people, the rapidly in- 
creasing use of spirituous liquors,* a detest- 
able practice, which includes in its conse- 
quences almost every evil, physical and 
moral. The peculiarly social disposition of 
the Scottish peasantry exposes them to this 
practice. This disposition, which is foster- 
ed by their national songs and music, is per- 
haps characteristic of the nation at large. 
Though the source of many pleasures, it 
counteracts by its consequences the effects 
of their patience, industry, and frugality, 
both at home and abroad, of which those 
especially who have witnessed the progress 
of Scotchmen in other countries, must have 
known many striking instancea. 

Since the Union, the manners and lan- 
guage of the people of Scotland have no 
longer a standard among themselves, but 
are tried by the standard of the nation to 
which they are united. Though their habits 
are far from being flexible, yet it is evident 
that their manners and dialect are undergo- 
ing a rapid change. Even the farmers of 
the present day appear to have less of the 
peculiarities of their country in their speech, 
than the men of letters of the last genera- 
tion. Burns, who never left the island, nor 
penetrated farther into England than Car- 
lisle on the one hand, or Newcastle on the 
other, had less of the Scottish dialect than 
Hume, who lived for many years in the best 
society of England and France : or perhaps 
than Robertson, who wrote the English lan- 
guage in a style of such purity ; and if he 
had been in other respects fitted to take a 
lead in the British House of Commons, his 
pronunciation would neither have fettered 
his eloquence, nor deprived it of its due 
effect. 

A striking particular in the character of 
the Scottish peasantry, is one which it is 
hoped will not be lost — the strength of their 
domestic attachments. The privation to 
which many parents submit for the good of 
their children, and particularly to obtain for 
them instruction, which they consider as the 
chief good, has already been noticed. If 
their children live and prosper, they have 
their certain reward, not merely as witness- 

* The amount of the duty on spirits distilled 
in Scotland is now upwards of 25O,O00Z. annually. 
In 1777, it did not reach 8,000Z. The rate of 
the duty has indeed been raised, but making 
every allowance, the increase of consumption 
must be eniirmous. This is independent of the 
duty on malt, &c. malt liquors, imported spirits, 
and wine. 



ing, but as sharing of their prosperity. 
Even in the humblest ranks of the peasant- 
ry, the earnings of the children may gene- 
rally be considered as at the disposal of their 
parents ; perhaps in no country is so large 
a portion of the wages of labour applied to 
the support and comfort of those whose 
days of labour are past. A similar strength 
of attachment extends through all the domes- 
tic relations. 

Our poet partook largely of this amiable 
characteristic of his humble compeers ; he 
was also strongly tinctured with another 
striking feature which belongs to them, a 
partiality for his native country, of which 
many proofs may be found in his writings. 
This, it must be confessed, is a very strong 
and general sentiment among the natives of 
Scotland, differing, however, in its charac- 
ter, according to the character of the differ- 
ent minds in which it is found ; in some, ap- 
pearing a selfish prejudice, in others, a gene- 
rous affection. 

An attachment to the land of their birth 
is, indeed, common to all men. It is found 
among the inhabitants of every region of 
the earth, from the arctic to the antarctic 
circle, in all the vast variety of climate, of 
surface, and of civilization. To analyze this 
general sentiment, to trace it through the 
mazes of association up to the primary affec- 
tion in which it has its source, would neither 
be a difficult nor an unpleasing labour. On 
the first consideration of the subject, we 
should perhaps expect to find this attach- 
ment strong in proportion to the physical 
advantages of the soil ; but inquiry, far from 
confirming this supposition, seems rather 
to lead to an oppo.site conclusion. — In those 
fertile regions where beneficent nature yields 
almost spontaneously whatever is necessary 
to human wants, patriotism, as well as every 
other generous sentiment, seems weak and 
languid. In countries less richly endowed, 
where the comforts, and even necessaries of 
life, must be purchased by patient toil, the 
affections of the mind, as well as the facul- 
ties of the understanding, improve under 
exertion, and patriotism flourishes amidst 
its kindred virtues. Where it is necessary 
to combine for mutual defence, as well as 
for the supply of common wants, mutual 
good-will springs from mutual diflBculties 
and labours, the social affections unfold them- 
selves, and extend from the men with whom 
we live, to the soil on which we tread. It 
will perhaps be found indeed, that our affec- 
tions cannot be originally called forth, but 
by objects capable, or supposed capable, of 
feeling our sentiments, and of returning 
them; but when once excited, they are 
stengthened by exercise, they are expanded 
by the powers of imagination, and seize more 
especially on those inanimate parts of crea- 
tion, which form the theatre on which we 



8 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



have first felt the alternations of joy and 
sorrow, and first tasted the sweets of sympa- 
thy and regard. If this reasoning be just, 
the love of our country, although modified 
and even extinguished in individuals by the 
chances and changes of life, may be presu- 
med in our general reasonings, to be strong 
among a people in proportion to their social, 
and more especially to their domestic aflfec- 
tions. In free governments it is found more 
active than in despotic ones, because as the 
individual becomes of more consequence in 
the community, the community becomes of 
more consequence to him. In small states 
it is generally more active than in large ones, 
for the same reason, and also because the 
independence of a small community being 
maintained with difficulty, and frequently 
endangered, sentiments of patriotism are 
more frequently excited. In mountainous 
countries it is generally found more active 
than in plains, because there the necessities 
of life often require a closer union of the 
inhabitants ; and more especially, because 
in such countries, though less populous than 
plains, the inhabitants, instead of being scat- 
tered equally over the whole, are usually 
divided into small communities on the sides 
of their separate valleys, and on the banks 
of their respective streams ; situations well 
calculated to call forth and to concentrate 
the social affections, amidst scenery that 
acts most powerfully on the sight, and makes 
a lasting impression on the memory. It may 
also be remarked, that mountainous coun- 
tries are often peculiarly calculated to nou- 
rish sentiments of national pride and inde- 
pendence, from the influence of history on 
the affections of the mind. In such coun- 
tries, from their natural strength, inferior 
nations have maintained their independence 
against their more powerful neighbours, and 
valour, in all ages, has made its most suc- 
cessful efforts against oppression. Such 
countries present the fields of battle, where 
the tide of invasion was rolled back, and 



where the ashes of those rest, who have died 
in defence of their nation. 

The operation of the various causes we 
have mentioned is doubtless more general 
and more permanent, where the scenery 
of a country, the peculiar manners of its 
inhabitants, and the martial achievements of 
their ancestors are embodied in national 
songs, and united to national music. By 
this combination, the tics that attach men to 
the land of their birth are multiplied and 
strengthened; and the images of infancy, 
strongly associating with the generous affec- 
tions, resist the influence of time, and of new 
impressions ; they often survive in countries 
far distant, and amidst far different scenes, 
to the latest periods of life, to sooth the heart 
with the pleasures of memory, when those of 
hope die away. 

If this reasoning be just, it will explain to 
us why, among the natives of Scotland, even 
of cultivated minds, we so generally find a 
partial attachment to the land of their birth, 
and why this is so strongly discoverable in the 
writings of Burns, who joined to the higher 
powers of the understanding, the most ar- 
dent affections. Let not men of reflection 
think it a superfluous labour to trace the rise 
and progress of a character like his. Born 
in the condition of a peasant, he rose by the 
force of his mind into distinction and influ- 
ence, and in his works has exhibited what 
are so rarely found, the charms of original 
genius. With a deep insight into the human 
heart, his poetry exhibits high powers of 
imagination — it displays, and as it were em- 
balms, the peculiar manners of his country ; 
and it may be considered as a monument, not 
to his own name only, but to the expiring 
genius of an ancient and once independent 
nation. In relating the incidents of his life, 
candour will prevent us from dwelling invi- 
duously on those failings which justice for- 
bids us to conceal ; we will tread lightly over 
his yet warm ashes, and respect the laurels 
that shelter his untimely grave. 



THE LIFjE 



OF 



ROBERT BURNS* 

BY DR. CURRIE. 



Robert Burns was, as is well known, the 
son of a farmer in Ayrshire, and afterwards 
himself a farmer there ; but, having been un- 
successful, he was about to emigrate to Ja- 
maica. He had previously, however, at- 
tracted some notice by his poetical talents 
in the vicinity where he lived ; and having 
published a small volume of his poems at Kil- 
marnock, this drew upon him more general 
attention. In consequence of the encourage- 
ment he received, he repaired to Edinburgh, 
and there published by subscription, an im- 
proved and enlarged edition of his poems, 
which met with extraordinary success. By 
the profits arising from the sale of this edi- 
tion, he was enabled to enter on a farm in 
Dumfriesshire ; and having married a per- 
son to whom he had been long attached, he 
retired to devote the remainder of his life to 
agriculture. He was again, however, unsuc- 
cessful ; and, abandoning his farm, he re- 
moved into the town of Dumfries, where he 
filled an inferior office in the excise, and where 
he terminated his life, in July, 1796, in his 
thirty-eighth year. 

The strength and originality of his genius 
procured him the notice of many persons dis- 
tinguished in the republic of letters, and, 
among others, that of Dr. Moore, well known 
for his Views of Society and Manners on the 
Continent of Europe, Zeluco, and various 
other works. To this gentleman our poet 
addressed a letter, after his first visit to Edin- 
burgh, giving a history of his life, up to the 
period of his writing. In a composition ne- 
ver intended to see the light, elegance, or 
perfect correctness of composition will not 
be expected. These, however, will be com- 
pensated by the opportunity of seeing our 
poet, as he gives the incidents of his life, un- 
fold the peculiarities of his character with 
all the careless vigour and open sincerity of 
his mind. 



Mauchline, 2d August, 1787. 



Sir, 



" For some months past I have been ram 
bling over the country ; but I ara now con- 



fined with some lingering complaints, origi- 
nating, as I take it, in the stomach. To di- 
vert my spirits a little in this miserable fog 
: of ennui, I have talien a whim to give you a 
history of myself My name has made some 
little noise in this country ; you have done 
me the honour to interest yourself very 
warmly in my behalf; and I think a faithful 
account of what character of a man I am, 
and how I came by that character, may per- 
haps amuse you in an idle moment. I will 
give you an honest narrative, though I know 
it will be often at my own expense ; for I as- 
sure you, Sir, I have, like Solomon, whose 
character, excepting in the trifling affair of 
wisdom, I sometimes think I resemble — I 
have, I say, like him, turned my eyes to be- 
hold madness and folly, and, like him, too 
frequently shaken hands with their intoxi- 
cating friendship. * * ♦ After 
you have perused these pages, should you 
think them trifling and impertinent, I only 
beg leave to tell you, that the poor author 
wrote them under some twitching qualms of 
conscience, arising from suspicion that he 
was doing what he ought not to do : a pre- 
dicament he has more than once been in be- 
fore. 

" I have not the most distant pretensions 
to assume that character which the pye- 
coated guardians of escutcheons call a gen- 
tleman. When at Edinburgh last winter, I 
got acquainted in the Herald's Office ; and, 
looking through that granary of honours, I 
there found almost every name in the king- 
dom ; but for me, 

" My ancient but ignoble blood 
Has crept through scoundrels ever since the 
flood." 

Gules, Purpure, Argent, &c. quite disowned 
me. 

" My father was of the north of Scotland, 
the son of a farmer, and was thrown by early 
misfortunes on the world at large ; where, 
after many years wanderings and sojournings, 
he picked up a pretty large quantity of obser- 
vation and experience, to which I am indebt- 



10 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



ed for most of my little pretensions to wis- 
dom. I have met with few who understood 
men, their manner s, and their ways, equal 
to him ; but stubborn ungainly integrity, and 
headlong, ungovernable irascibility, are dis- 
qualifying circumstances ; consequently I 
was born a very poor man's son. For the 
first six or seven years of my life, my father 
was gardener to a worthy gentleman of small 
estate in the neighbourhood of Ayr. Had 
he continued in that station, I must have 
marched off to be one of the little underlings 
about a farm-house ; but it was his dearest 
wish and prayer to have it in his power to 
keep his children under his own eye till they 
could discern between good and evil ; so with 
the assistance of his generous master, my fa- 
ther ventured on a small farm on his estate. 
At those years I was by no means a favourite 
with any body. I was a good deal noted for 
a retentive memory, a stubborn, sturdy some- 
thing in my disposition, and an enthusiastic 
idiot* piety. I say idiot piety, because I was 
then but a child. Though it cost the school- 
master some thrashings, I made an excellent 
English scholar: and by the time I was ten 
or eleven years of age, 1 was a critic in sub- 
stantives, Verbs, and particles. In my infant 
and boyish days, too, I owed much to an old 
woman who resided in the family, remarka- 
ble for her ignorance, credulity and supersti- 
tion. She had, I suppose, the largest collec- 
tion in the country of tales and songs, con- 
cerning devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, 
witches, warlocks, spunkies, kelpies, elf- 
candles, dead-lights, wraiths, apparitions, 
cantraips, giants, enchanted towers, dra- 
gons, and other trumpery. This cultivated 
the latent seeds of poetry ; but had so strong 
an effect on my imagination, that to this 
hour, in my nocturnal rambles, I sometimes 
keep a sharp look out in suspicious places: 
and though nobody can be more sceptical 
than I am in such matters, yet it often takes 
an effort of philosophy to shake off these 
idle terrors. The earliest composition that 
I recollect taking pleasure in, was The Vision 
of Mirza, and a hymn of Addison's, begin- 
ning. How are th^j servants blest, Lord! 
I particularly remember one half-stanza, 
which was music to my boyish ear — 

" For though on dreadful whirls we hung 
High on the broken wave—" 

I met with these pieces in Mason's English 
Collection, one of my school-books. The 
two first books I ever read in private, and 
which gave me more pleasure than any two 
books I ever read since, were The Life of 
Hannibal, and The History of Sir William 
Wallace. Hannibal gave my young ideas 
such a turn, that I used to strut in raptures 
up and down after the recruiting drum and 
bag-pipe, and wish myself tall enough to be 

* Hiot for Idiotic. 



a soldier ; while the story of Wallace poured 
a Scottish prejudice into my veins, which 
will boil along there till the flood-gates of 
life shut in eternal rest. 

" Polemical divinity about this time was 
putting the country half-mad ; and I, ambi- 
tious of shining in conversation parties on 
Sundays, between sermons, at funerals, &c. 
used, a few years afterwards, to puzzle Cal- 
vinism with so much heat and indiscretion, 
that I raised a hue and cry of heresy against 
me, which has not ceased to this hour. 

" My vicinity to Ayr was of some advan- 
tage tome. My social disposition, when not 
checked by some modifications of spirited 
pride, was like our catechism definition of 
infinitude, without bounds or limits. I formed 
several connexions with other youngsters who 
possessed superior advantages, the youngling 
actors, who were busy in the rehearsal of 
parts in which they were shortly to appear 
on the stage of life, where, alas ! I was des- 
tined to drudge behind the scenes. It is not 
commonly at this green age that our young 
gentry have a jtist sense of the immense dis- 
tance between them and their ragged play- 
fellows. It takes a few dashes into the world 
to give the young great man that proper, de- 
cent, unnoticing disregard for the poor, in- 
significant, stupid devils, the mechanics and 
peasantry around him, who were perhaps 
born in the same village. My young supe- 
riors never insulted the clouterly appearance 
of my ploughboy carcass, the two extremes 
of which were often exposed to all the incle- 
mencies of all the seasons. They would give 
me stray volumes of books ; among them, 
even then, I could pick up some observa- 
tions ; and one, whose heart I am sure not 
even the Munny Begum scenes have tainted, 
helped me to a little French. Parting with 
these my young friends and benefactors as 
they occasionally went off for the East o-r 
West Indies, was often to me a sore afflic- 
tion ; but I was soon called to more serious 
evils. My father's generous master died ; 
the farm proved a ruinous bargain ; and to 
clench the misfortune, we fell into the hands 
of a factor, who sat for the picture I have 
drawn of one in my Tale of Twa Dogs. My 
father was advanced in life when he mar- 
ried ; I was the eldest of seven children ; and 
he worn out by early hardships, was unfit for 
labour. My father's spirit was soon irritated, 
but not easily broken. There was a freedom 
in his lease in two years more ; and, to wea- 
ther these two years, we retrenched our ex- 
penses. We lived very poorly : I was a dex- 
terous ploughman for my age ; and the next 
eldest to me was a brother (Gilbert) who 
could drive the plough very well, and help 
me to thrash the corn. A novel writer might 
have viewed these scenes with some satis- 
faction ; but Bo did not I ; my indignation yet 
boib at the recollection of the s 1 factor's 



THE LIFE OF BUKINS. 



11 



insolent threatening letters, which used to 
set us all in tears. 

*' This kind of life — the cheerless gloom of 
a hermit, with the unceasing moil of a galley 
slave, brought me to my sixteenth year ; a 
little before which period 1 first committed 
the sin of rhyme. You know our country 
custom of coupling a man and woman toge- 
ther as partners in the labours of harvest. In 
my fifteenth autumn my partner was a be- 
witching creature, a year younger than my- 
self. My scarcity of English denies me the 
power of doing her justice in that language ; 
but you know the Scottish idiom — she was a 
bonnie, sweet, sonsie lass. In short, she al- 
together, unwittingly to herself, initiated me 
into that delicious passion, which in spite of 
acid-disappointment, gin-horse prudence, and 
book-worm philosophy, 1 hold to be the first 
of human joys, our dearest blessing here be- 
low ! How she caught, the contagion I can- 
not tell: you medical people talk much of in- 
fection from breathing the same air, the 
touch, &c. ; but 1 never expressly said I 
loved her. Indeed I did not know myself 
why I liked so mucli to loiter behind with 
her, when returning in the evening from our 
labours ; why the tones of her voice made my 
heart strings thrill like an iEolian harp ; and 
particularly why my pulse beat such a fu- 
rious rattan when 1 looked and fingered over 
her little hand to pick out the cruel nettle 
stings and thistles. Among her other love- 
inspiring qualities, she sung SAveetly ; and it 
was her favourite reel to which I attempted 
giving an embodied vehicle in rhyme. I was 
not so presumptuous as to imagine that I 
coul'd make verses like printed ones, com- 
posed by men who had Greek and Latin ; 
but my girl sung a song, which was said to 
be composed by a small country laird's son, 
on one of his father's maids, with whom he 
M'as in love ! and I saw no reason why I 
might not rhyme as well as he ; for, except- 
ing that he could smear sheep, and cast peats, 
his father living in the moorlands, he had no 
more scholar-scraft than myself* 

" Thus with me began love and poetry ; 
which at times have been my only, and till 
within the last twelve months, have been my 
highest enjoyment. My father struggled on 
till he reached the freedom in his lease, when 
he entered on a larger farm, about ten miles 
farther in the country. The nature of the 
bargain he made was such as to throw a little 
ready money into his hands at the commence- 
ment of his lease, otherwise the affair would 
have been impracticable. For four years we 
lived comfortably here ; but a difference com- 
mencing between him and his landlord as to 
terms, after three years tossing and whirling 
in the vortex of litigation, my father was just 
saved from the horrors of a gaol by a con- 



* See Appendix, No. JI. Note A. 

25 



sumption, which, after two years promises^ 
kindly stepped in, and carried him away, to 
where, the loichcd cease from troubling y and 
the weary are at rest. 

~^"Htis during the time that we lived on 
this farm, that my little story is most event- 
ful. I was, at the beginning of this period, 
perhaps the most ungainl}', awkward boy in 
the parish — no solitaire vvas less acquainted 
with the ways of the world. What I knew 
of ancient story was gathered from Salmon's 
and Guthrie's geographical grammars: and 
the ideas I had foruied of modern manners, 
of literature, and criticism, I got from the 
Spectator. These with Pope's JVorks, some 
plays of Shakspeare, Tull and Dickenson on 
Agriculture, The Pantheon, Locke's Essay 
on the Human Understanding , Stackhouse's 
History of the Bible, Justice's British Gar' 
doner's Directory, Bayle's Lectures, Allan 
Ramsay's IVorks, Taylor's Scripture Doc- 
trine of Original Sin, A Select Collection, of 
English Songs, and Hervey^s Meditations ^ 
had formed the whole of my reading. The 
collection of Songs was my vade mecum. I 
pored over them driving my cart, or walking 
to labour, song by song, verse by verse; 
carefully noting the true tender, or sublime, 
from affectation and fustian. I am convinced 
I owe to this practice much of my critic crafl 
such as it is. 

" In my seventeenth year, to give my 
manners a brush, I went to a country danc- 
ing school. My father had an unaccounta- 
ble antipathy against these meetings; and 
my going was, what to this moment I re- 
pent, in opposition to his wishes. My fa- 
ther, as I said before, was subject to strong 
passions; from that instance of disobedience' 
in me he took a sort of dislike to me, which 
I believe was one cause of the dissipation 
which marked my succeeding years. I say 
dissipation comparatively with the strictness 
and sobriety, and regularity of presbyterian 
country life ; for though the Will o' Wisp 
meteors of thoughtless whim were almost 
the sole lights of my path, yet early ingrained, 
piety and virtue kept me for several years 
afterwards within the line of innocence. The 
great misfortune of my life was to want an 
aim. I had felt early some stirrimg of am- 
bition, but they were the blind gropings of 
Homer's Cyclop round the walls of his cave. 
I saw my father's situation entailed on me 
perpetual labour. The only two openings by 
which I could enter the temple of Fortune, 
was the gate of niggardly economy, or the 
path of little chicaning baygain-making. The 
first is so contracted an aperture, I never 
could squeeze myself into it ; — the last I al- 
ways hated — there was contamination in the 
very entrance ! Thus abandoned of aim or 
view in life, with a strong appetite for socia- 
bility, as well from native hilarity as from a 
1 pride of observation and remark; a constitu- 



12 



THE LIFE OF BURPfS. 



tional nielanelioly or hj'^pocondriasm that 
made me fly from solitude ; add to these in- 
centives to social hfe, my reputation for 
bookish knowledge, a certain wild logical 
talent, and a strength of thought, something 
like the rudiments of good sense ; and it will 
not seem surprising that I was generally a 
welcome guest where I visited, or any great 
wonder that, always where two or three met 
together, there was I among them. But far 
beyond all other impulses of my heart, was 
vn penchant a Vadorable moitie du gtnrt hu- 
main. My heart was completely tinder, and 
was eternally lighted up by some goddess or 
other ; and as in every other warfare in this 
world, my fortune was various, sometimes I 
was received with favour, and sometimes I 
was mortified with a repulse. At the plough, 
scythe, or reaping hook, I feared no compe- 
titor, and thus I set absolute want at defiance; 
and as I never cared farther for my labours 
than while I was in actual exercise, I spent 
the evenings in the way after my own heart. 
A country-lad seldom carries on a love-ad- 
venture without an assistant confidant. I 
possessed a curiosity, zeal, and intrepid dex- 
terity, that recommended me as a proper se- 
cond on these occasions ; and I dare say, I 
felt as much pleasure in being in the secret 
of half the loves of the parish of Tarbolton, 
as ever did statesman in knowing the in- 
trigues of half the courts of Europe. The 
very goose feather in my hand seems to 
know instinctively the well worn path of my 
imagination, the favourite theme of my song : 
and is with difficulty restrained from giving 
vou a couple of paragraphs on the love ad- 
ventures of my compeers, the humble in- 
mates of the farm-house and cottage ; but 
the grave sons of science, ambition, or ava- 
rice, baptize these things by the name of Fol- 
lies. To the sons and daughters of labour 
and poverty, they are matters of the most 
serious nature ; to them, the ardent hope, the 
stolen interview, the tender farewell, are the 
greatest and most delicious parts of their en- 
joyments. 

" Another circumstance in my life which 
made some alteration in my mind and man- 
ners, was that I spent my nineteenth summer 
on a smuggling coast, a good distance from 
liome, at a noted school, to learn mensuration, 
surveying, dialling, &c. in which I made a 
pretty good progress. But I made a greater 
progress in the knowledge of mankind. The 
contraband trade was at that time very suc- 
cessful, and it sometimes happened to me to 
fall in with those who carried it on. Scenes 
of swaggering, riot, and roaring dissipation, 
were till this time new to me ; but I was no 
enemy to social life. Here, though I learnt 
to fill my glass, and to mix without fear in a 
drunken squabble, yet I went on with a 
high hand with my geometry, till the sun en- 
tered Virgo, a month which is always a car- 
nival in my bosom, when a charming filetfe. 



who lived next door to the school, overset 
my trigonometry, and set me off at a tangent 
from the sphere of ray studies. I, however, 
struggled on with my sines and cosines for a 
few days more ; but stepping into the gar- 
den one charming noon to take the sun's al- 
titude, there I met my angel, 

*• Like Proserpine gathering flowers, 
Herself a fairer flower. — " 

" It was in vain to think of doing anymore 
good at school. The remaining week I staid, 
I did nothing but craze the faculties of my 
soul about her, or steal out to meet her ; and 
the two last nights of my stay in the coun- 
try, had sleep been a mortal sin, the image of 
this modest and innocent girl had kept me 
guiltless. 

" I returned home very considerably im- 
proved. M}' reading was enlarged with the 
very important addition of Thomson's and 
Shenstone's Works ; I had seen human na- 
ture in a new phasis; and I engaged several 
of my school-fellows to keep up a literary 
correspondence with me. This improved me 
in composition. I had met with a collection 
of letters by the wits of Queen Annos reign, 
and I pored over them most devoutly ; I kept 
copies of any of my own letters that pleased 
me ; and a comparison between them and 
the Composition of most of my correspon- 
dents, flattered my vanit}'. 1 carried this 
whim so far, that though I had not three far- 
things worth of business in the world, j'et 
almost every post brought me as many let- 
ters as if I had been a broad plodding son of 
day-book and ledger. 

" My life flowed on much in the same 
course till my twenty-third year. Vive V a- 
■muur, et vice la bagatelle, were my sole prin- 
ciples of action. The addition of two more 
authors to my library gave me great plea- 
sure; Sterne and M^Kenzie — Tristrain Shan- 
dy and The Man of Feelivg — were my bosom 
favourites. Poesy was still a darling walk 
for my mind ; but it was only indulged in ac- 
cording to the humour of the hour. I had 
usually half a dozen or more pieces on hand ; 
1 took up one or other, as it suited the mo- 
mentary tone of the mind, and dismissed the 
woik as it bordered on fatigue. My pas- 
sions, when once lighted up, raged like so 
many devils, till they got vent in rhyme ; 
and then the conning over my verses, like a 
spell, soothed all into quiet ! None of the 
rhymes of those days are in print, except 
Winter, a Dirge, the eldest of my printed 
i pieces ; The Death of Poor Afailie, John Bar- 
leycorn, and songs first, second, and third. 
Song second was the ebullition of that pas- 
sion which ended the forementioned school- 
business. 

" Mv twentv-third year was to me an im- 



THE LIFE OF BURNS, 



13 



porlant era. Partly through whim, and part- 
ly that I wished to set about doing some- 
thing in Ufe, I joined a flax-drcsscr in a 
neighbouring town (Irvine) to learn his trade. 
This was an unlucky affair. My * * * ; and 
t.o finish the whole, as we were jjiving a 
welcome carousal to the new year, the shop 
took fire, and burnt to ashes ; and I was lefl 
like a true poet, not worth a sixpence. 

" I was obliged to give up this scheme ; 
the clouds of misfortune were gathering 
thick round my father's head ; and what was 
worst of all he was visibly far gone in a 
consumption ; and to crown my distresses, 
a belle fille whom I adored, and who had 
pledged her soul to meet me in the field of 
matrimony, jilted me, with peculiar circum- 
stances of mortification. The finishing evil 
that brought up the rear of this infernal file, 
was my constitutional melancholy, being in- 
creased to such a degree, that for three 
months I was in a state of mind scarcely to be 
envied by the hopeless wretches wiio have 
got their mittimus — Depart from me ye ac- 
cursed ! 

" From this adventure I learned something 
of a town life ; but the principal thing which 
gave my mind a turn, was a friendship I 
Ibrmed with a young fellow, a very noble 
character, but a hapless son of misfortune. 
He was the son of a simple mechanic ; but a 
great man in the neighbourhood taking him 
under his patronage, gave him a genteel edu- 
cation, with a view of bettering his situation 
in life. The patron dying just as he was 
j-eady to launch out into the world, the poor 
fellow in despair went to sea ; where after a 
variety of good and ill fortune, a little before 
I was acquainted with him, he had been set on 
shore by an American privateer, on the wild 
coast of Connaught, stripped of every thing. 
I cannot quit this poor fellow's story without 
adding,thatheisat this time master ofalarge 
West-Indiaman belonging to the Thames. 

" His mind was fraught with independence, 
magnanimity, and every manly virtue. I 
loved and admired him to a degree of enthu- 
siasm, and of course strove to imitate him. 
Iri some measure I succeeded ; I had pride 
before, but he taught it to flow in proper 
channels. His knowledge of the world was 
vastly superior to mine, and I was all atten- 
tion to learn. He was the only man I ever 
saw who was a greater fool than myself, 
where woman was the presiding star ; but 
he spoke of illicit love with the levity of a 
sailor, which hitherto I had regarded with 
horror. Here his friendship did me a mis- 
chief ; and the consequence was that soon 
after I resumed the plough, I wrote the PoeVs 
Welcome* My reading only increased, while 

* Rob the Rhvraei-'s Welcome to his Bastard 

rhiici. 



in this towii, by two stray volumes of Pamela, 
and one of Ferdinand Count Fathom, which 
gave me some idea of novels. Rhyme, except 
some religious pieces that are in print, I had 
given up ; but meeting with Ferguson's 
Scottish Poems, I strung anew my wildly 
sounding lyre with emulating vigour. When 
my father died, his all went among the hell- 
hounds that prowl in the kennel of justice ; 
but we made a siiift to collect a little money 
in the family amongst us, with which, te 
keep us together, my brother and I took a 
neighbouring farm. My brother wanted my 
hair-brained imagination, as well as my so- 
cial and amorous madness ; but, in good 
sense, and every sober qualification, he was 
far my superior. 

" I entered on this farm with a full resolu- 
tion. Come, go to, I will be wise! I read 
farming books ; I calculated crops ; I at- 
tended markets ; and, in short, in spite of 
the devil, the world, and the flesh, I believe I 
should have been a wise man ; but the first 
year, from unfortunately buying bad seed, 
the second, from a late harvest, we lost half 
our crops. This overset all my wisdom, and 
I returned, HJce the dog to his vomit, and the 
sow that was washed, to her wallowing in the 
mire.* 

I now began to be known in the neigh- 
bourhood as a maker of rhymes. The first 
of my poetic offspring that saw the light, 
was a burlesque lamentation on a quarrel 
between two reverend Calvinists, both of 
them dramatis personce in my Holy fair. I 
had a notion myself, that the piece had some 
merit ; but to prevent the worst, I gave a 
copy of it to a friend who was very fond of 
such things, and told him that I could not 
guess who was the author of it, but that I 
thought it pretty clever. With a certain 
description of the clergy, as well as laity, it 
met with a roar of applause. Holy Willie's 
Prayer next made its appearance, and 
alarmed the kirk-session so much, that they 
held several meetings to look over their .spi- 
ritual artillery, if haply any of it might be 
pointed against profaner rhymers. Unluckily 
for me, my wanderings led me on another 
side, within point-blank shot of their heaviest 
metal. This is the unfortunate story that 
gave rise to my printed poem, The Lament. 
This was a most melancholy affair, which I 
cannot yet bear to reflect on, and had very 
nearly given me one or two of the principal 
qualifications for a place among those who 
have lost the chart, and mistaken the reckon- 
ing of Rationality.! I gave up my part of 
the farm to my brother ; and in truth it was 
only nominally mine 3 and made what little 



* See Appendix, No. II. Note B. 
f An explanation of this will be found here- 
after. 



14 



THE LITE OF BURNS. 



preparation was in my power for Jamaica. 
But beforo leaving my native coimtry for 
ever, I resolved to publish my pcems. T 
weiaflied my productions as impartially as 
was in my power ; I thought they had merit ; 
and it was a delicious idea that I should be 
called a clever fellow, even though it should 
never reach my ears — a poor negro driver ; — 
or perhaps a victim to that inhospitable clime, 
and gone to the world of spirits ! I can truly 
say, that pauvre inconnu as I then was, I had 
pretty nearly as high an idea of myself and 
of my works as I have at this moment, when 
the public has decided in their favour. It 
ever was my opinion, that the mistakes and 
blunders, both in a rational and religious 
point of view, of which we see thousands 
daily guilty, are owing to their ignorance of 
themselves. To know myself had been all 
along my constant study. I weighed mj'self 
alone; J balanced myself with others; I 
watched every means of information, to see 
how much ground I occupied as a man and 
as a poet ; I studied assiduously Nature's de- 
sign in my formation — where the lights and 
shades in my character were intended. I 
was pretty confident my poems would meet 
with some applause ; but, at the worst, the 
roar of the Atlantic would deafen the voice 
of censure, and the novelty of West Indian 
scenes make me forget neglect. I threw off 
six hundred copies, of which I had got sub- 
scriptions for about three hundred and fifty — 
My vanity was highly gratified by the re- 
ception I met with from the public ; and be- 
sides I pocketed, all expenses deducted, 
nearly twenty pounds. This sum came very 
seasonably, as I was thinking of indenting 
myself, for want of money to procure my 
passage. As soon as I was master of nine 
guineas, the price of wafting me to the torrid 
zone, I took a steerage passage in the first 
ship that was to sail irom the Clyde ; for, 

" Hungry ruin had me in the wind." 

" I had been for some days skulking from 
covert to covert, under all the terrors of a 
jdil; as some ill-advised people had uncoupled 
the merciless pack of the law at my heels. I 
had taken the farewell of my few friends ; 
my chest was on the road to Greenock ; I 
had composed the last song I should ever 
measure in Caledonia, The gloomy night is 
gathering fast y when a letter from Dr. Black- 
lock, to a friend of mine, overthrew all my 
schemes, by opening new prospects to my 
poetic ambition. The Doctor belonged to a 
set of critics, for whose applause I had not 
dared to hope. His opinion that I would 
meet with encouragement in Edinburgh for 
a second edition, fired me so much, that 
away I posted for that city, without a single 
acquaintance, or a single letter of introduc- 
iioB. The baneful stai which had so long 
shed its blasting influence in my zenitli, for 



once made a revolution to the nadir; and a 
kind Providence placed me under the patron- 
age of one of the noblestof men, the Earl of 
Glencairn. Ouhlic moi, Grand Dieu, si ja- 
mais jc V ouhlic ! 

'• I need relate no farther. At Edinburgh 
I was in a new world ; I mingled among many 
classes of men, but all of them new to me, 
and I was all attention to catch the charac- 
ters and the manners living as they rise. 
Whether I have profited, time will show. 



" My most respectful compliments to Miss 
W. Her very elegant and friendly letter I 
cannot answer at present, as my presence is 
requisite in Edinburgh, and 1 set out to- 
morrow."* 



At the period of our poet's death, his bro- 
ther, Gilbert Burns, was ignorant that he 
had himself written the foregoing narrative 
of his life while in Ayrshire ; and having 
been applied to by Mrs. Dunlop for some me- 
moirs of his brotiaer, he coinplied with her 
request in a letter, from which the following 
narrative is chiefly extracted. When Gilbert 
Burns afterwards saw the letter of our poet 
to Dr. Moore, he made some annotations 
upon it, which shall be noticed as we proceed. 

Robert Burns was born on the 25th day of 
January, 1751), in a small house about two 
miles from the town of Ayr, and within a few 
hundred yards of Allowa}' church, which his 
poem of Tarn o' Shantcr has rendered im- 
mortal. t The name which the poet and his 
brother modernized into Burns, was origin- 
ally Burnes, or Burness. Their father, Wil- 
liam Burnes, was the son of a farmer in Kin- 
cardineshire, and had received the education 
common in Scotland to persons in his con- 
dition of life; he could read and write, and 
had some knowledge of arithmetic. His fa- 
mily having fallen into, reduced circum- 
stances, he was compelled to leave his home 
in his nineteenth year, and turned his steps 
towards the south in quest of a livelihood. 
Tiie same necessity attended his elder bro- 



* There are various copies of tliis letter in the 
author's hand-writini.' ; and one of these, evi- 
dently correcte(3, is in the book in which he liad 
copied several of his letters. This has been used 
for the press, with some omissions, and one slight 
alteration suggested by Gilbert Burns. 

f This house is on the right-hand side of the 
road from Ayr to Maybole, which forms a part 
of the road from Glasgow to Port-Patrick. W hen 
the poet's father afterwards removed to Tarbol- 
ton parish, he sold his leasehold right in this 
house, and a few acres of land adjoining, to the 
corporation of shoemakers in Ayr. It is now a 
country ale-house. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



15 



ther Robert. "I have often heard my father," 
says Gilbert Burns, in his letter to Mrs. Dun- 
lop, " describe the anguish of mind he felt 
when they parted on the top of a hill on the 
confines of their native place, each going off 
his several way in search of new adventures, 
and scarcely knowing whither he went- My 
father undertook to act as a gardener, and 
shaped his course to Edinburgh, where he 
wrought hard when he could get work, pass- 
ing through a variety of difficulties. Still, 
however, he endeavoured to spare something 
for the support of his aged parents : and I re- 
collect hearing him mention his having sent 
a bank-note for this purpose, when money of 
that kind was so scarce in Kincardineshire, 
that they scarcely knew how to employ it 
when it arrived." From Edinburgh, William 
Burnes passed westward into the county of 
Ayr, where he engaged himself as a garden- 
er to the laird of Fairly, with whom he lived 
two years ; then changing his service for 
that of Crawford of Doonside. At length, 
being desirous of settling in life, he took a 
perpetual lease of seven acres of land from 
Dr. Campbell, physician in Ayr, with the 
view of commencing nurseryman and public 
gardener ; and having built a house upon it 
with his own hands, married, in December, 
1757, Agnes Brown, the mother of our poet, 
who still survives. The first fruit of this 
marriage, was Robert, the subject of these 
memoirs, born on the 25th of January, 1759, 
as has already been mentioned. Before Wil- 
liam Burnes had made much progress in pre- 
paring his nursery, he was withdrawn from 
that undertaking by Mr. Ferguson, who pur- 
chased the estate of Doonholm, in the im- 
mediate neighbourhood, and engaged him as 
his gardener and overseer ; and this was his 
situation when our poet was born. Though 
in the service of Mr. Ferguson, he lived in 
his own house, his wife managing her family 
and her little dairy, which consisted some- 
times of two, sometimes of three milch cows ; 
and this state of unambitious content conti- 
nued till the year 1766. His son Robert was 
sent by him in his sixth year, to a school at 
AUoway Miln, about a mile distant, taught 
by a person of the name of Campbell; but this 
teacher being in a few months appointed 
master of the workhouse at Ayr, William 
Burnes, in conjunction with some other 
heads of families, engaged John Murdoch in 
his stead. The education of our poet, and 
of his brother Gilbert, was in common ; and 
of their proficiency under Mr. Murdoch, we 
have the following account : '' With him we 
learnt to read English tolerably well,* and to 
write a little. He taught us, too, the English 
grammar. I was too young to profit much 
from his lessons in grammar ; but Robert 
made some proficiency in it — a circumstance 
of considerable weight in the unfolding of 

* Letter from Gilbert Burns to Mr?. Dunlop. 



his genius and character ; as he soon became 
remarkable for the fluency and correctness of 
his expression, and read the few books that 
came in his way with much pleasure and im- 
provement : for even then he was a reader 
when he could get a book. Murdoch, whose 
library at that time had no great variety in it, 
lent him The Life of Hannibal, which was the 
first book he read, (the schoolbook excepted,) 
and almost the only one he had an opportu- 
nity of reading while he was at school : for 
The TAfe of Wallace, which he classes with it 
in one of his letters to you, he did not see for 
some years afterwards, when he borrowed it 
from the blacksmith who shod our horses." 

It appears that William Burnes approved 
himself greatly in the service of Mr" Fergu- 
son, by his intelligence, industry, and inte- 
grity. In consequence of this with a view of 
promoting bis interest, Mr. Ferguson leased 
him a farm, of which we have the following 
account : 

" The farm was upwards of seventy acres,* 
(between eighty and ninety English statute 
measure,) the rent of which was to be forty 
pounds annually for the first six years, and 
afterwards forty-five pounds. My father en- 
deavoured to sell his leasehold property, for 
the purpose of stocking this farm, but at that 
time was unable, and Mr. Ferguson lent him 
a hundred pounds for that purpose. He re- 
moved to his new situation at Whitsuntide, 
1766. It was, I think, not above two years 
after this, that Murdoch, our tutor and friend, 
left this part of the country ; and there beino- 
no school near us, and our little services 
being useful on the farm, my father under- 
took to teach us arithmetic in the winter 
evenings by candle-light; and in this way 
my two eldest sisters got all the education 
they received. I remember a circumstance 
that happened at this time, which, though 
trifling in itself, is fresh in my memory, and 
may serve to illustrate the early character of 
my brother. Murdoch came to spend a night 
with us, and to take his leave when he was 
about to go into Carrick. He brought us, as 
a present and memorial of him, a small com- 
pendium of English Grammar, and the tra- 
gedy of Titus Andronicus, and by way of 
passing the evening, he bega"n to read the 
play aloud. We were all attention for some 
time, till presently the whole party was dis- 
solved in tears. A female in the play (I have 
but a confused remembrance of it) had her 
hands chopt off, and her tongue cut out, and 
then was insultingly desired to call for water 
to wash her hands. At this, in an agony of 
distress, we with one voice desired he would 
read no more. My father observed, that if 

* Letter of Gilbert Burns to Mrs. Dunlop. The 
name of this farm is Mount Oliphant, in Ayr 

parish. 



16 



THE LIFE OF BURIN'S. 



we would not hear it out, it would be need- 
less to leave the play with us. Robert re- 
plied, that if it waB left he would burn it. 
My father was going to chide him for this 
ungrateful return to his tutor's kindness ; 
buiT Murdoch interfered, declaring that he 
liked to see so much sensibility ; and he 
left The School for Love, a comedy (trans- 
lated I think from the French,) in its place."* 

'• Nothing," continues Gilbert Burns, 
*' could be more retired than our general 
manner of living at Mount Oliphant ; we 
rarely saw any body but the members of our 
own family. There were no boys of our own 
age, or near it, in the neighbourhood. In- 
deed the greatest part of the land in the vi- 
cinity was at that time possessed by shop- 
keepers, and people of that stamp, who had 
retired from business, or who kept their farm 
in the country, at the same time that they 
followed business in town. My father was 
for some time almost the only companion we 
had. He conversed familiarly on all subjects 
with us, as if we had been men; and was at 
great pains, while we accompanied him in 
the labours of the farm, to lead the conversa- 
tion to such subjects as might tend to in- 
crease our knowledge, or confirm us in vir- 
tuous habits. He borrowed Salmon's Geo- 
graphical Grammar for us, and endeavoured 
to make us acquainted with the situation and 
history of the different countries in the 
world ; while from a book-society in Ayr, he 
procured for us the reading of Derham's 
Fhysico and Astro- Theology , and Ray's Wis- 
dom of God in the Creation, to give us some 
idea of astronomy and natural history. Ro- 
bert read all these books with an avidity and 
industry, scarcely to be equalled. My father 
had been a subscriber to Stackhouse's History 
of the Bible, then lately published by James 
Meuross in Kilmarnock: from this Robert 



» It is to be remembered that the poet was 
only nine j'ears of age, and the relator of this in- 
cident under eight, at the time it happened. The 
effect was very natural in children of sensibility 
at their age. At a more mature period of the 
judgment, such absurd representations are calcu- 
lated rather to produce disgust or laughter, than 
tears. The scene to which Gilbert Burns alludes, 
opens thus : 

Titus Andronicus, Act 11. Scene 5. 

JE,nier Demetrius and Chiron, with Lavinia ra- 
vished, her hands cut off, and her tongue cut out. 

"Why is this silly play still printed as Shaks- 
peare's, agauist the opinion of all the best critics .'' 
The bard of Avon was guilty of many extrava- 
gancies, but he always performed what he in- 
tended to perform. That he ever excited in a 
British mind (for the French critics must be set 
aside) disgust or ridicule, where he meant to 
liave awakened pity or horror, is what will not 
be imputed to that inraster of the passions. 



collected a competent knowledge of history 7 
for no book was so voluminous as to slacken 
his industry, or so antiquated as to damp his 
researches. A brother of my mother, who 
had lived with us some time, and had learnt 
some arithmetic by winter evening's candle, 
went into a bookseller's shop in Ayr, to pur- 
chase The Ready Reckoner or Tradesman's 
sure Guide, and a book to teach him to write 
letters. Luckily, in place of The Com-plete 
Letter Writer, he got by mistake a small col- 
lection of letters by the most eminent writers, 
with a few sensible directions for attaining 
an easy epistolary style. This book was to 
Robert of the greatest consequence. It in- 
spired him with a strong desire to excel in 
letter-writing, while it furnished him with 
models by some of the first writers in our 
language. 

" My brother was about thirteen or four- 
teen, when my father, regretting that we 
wrote so ill, sent us, week about, during a 
summer quarter, to the parish school of Dal- 
rymple, which, though between two and 
three miles distant, was the nearest to us, 
that we might have an opportunity of reme- 
dying this defect. About this time a bookish 
acquaintance of my father's procured us a 
reading of two volumes of Richardson's Pa- 
mela, which was the first novel we read, and 
the only part of Richardson's works my bro- 
ther was acquainted with till towards the 
period of his commencing author. Till that 
time too he remained unacquainted with 
Fielding, with Smollet, (two volumes of 
Ferdinand* Count Fathom, and two volumes 
of Peregrine Pickle excepted,) with Hume, 
with Robertson, and almost all our authors 
of eminence of the later times. I recollect 
indeed my father borrowed a volume of Eng- 
lish history from Mr. Hamilton of Bourtree- 
hill's gardener. It treated of the reign of 
James the First, and his unfortunate son, 
Charles, but I do not know who was the au- 
thor ; all that I remember of it is something 
of Charles's conversation with his children. 
About this time Murdoch, our former teach- 
er, after having been in different places in 
the country, and having taught a school some 
time in Dumfries, came to be the established 
teacher of the English language in Ayr, a 
circumstance of considerable consequence to 
us. The remembrance of my father's former 
friendship, and his attachment to my brother, 
made him do every thing in his power for 
our improvement. He sent us Pope's works, 
and some other poetry, the first that we had 
an opportunity of reading, excepting what is 
contained in The English Collection, and in 
the volume of The Ediiiburgh Magazine for 
1772 ; excepting also those excellent ncto 
sojigs that are hawked about the country in 
baskets, or exposed on stalls in the streets. 

" The summer after we had been at Dal- 
rymple school, my father sent Robert to Ayr, 



THE LIFE OP BUENS. 



17 



{.0 revise his Eno;lish grammar, with his 
former teacher. He had been there only one 
week, when he was obliged to return to as- 
sist at the harvest. When the harvest was 
over, he went back to school, where he re- 
mained two weeks ; and this completes the 
account of his school education, excepting 
one summer quarter, some time afterwards, 
that he attended the parish school of Kirk- 
Oswald, (where he lived with a brother of 
my mother's.) to learn surveying. 

" Durinsr the two last weeks that he was 
with Murdoch, he himself was engaged in 
learning French, and he communicated the 
instructions he received to my brother, who, 
when he returned, brought home with him a 
French dictionary and grammar, and the 
Adventures of Telemachus in the original. 
■In a little while, by the assistance of these 
books, he had acquired such a knowledge of 
the language, as to read and understand any 
French author in prose . This was considered 
as a sort of prodigy, and through the medium 
of Murdoch, procured him the acquaintance 
of several lads in Ayr, who were at that time 
srabbling French, and the notice of some fa- 
milies, particularly that of Dr. Malcolm, 
where a knowledge of French was a recom- 
mendation. 

" Observing the facility with w^hich he had 
acquired the French language, Mr. Robin- 
sou, the established writing-master in Ayr, 
and Mr. Murdoch's particular friend, having 
himselfacquired a considerable knowledge of 
the Latin language by his own industry, with- 
out ever having learnt it at school, advised 
Robert to make the same attempt, promising 
him every assistance in his power. Agree- 
ably to this advice, he purchased The Rudi- 
ments of the Latin Tongue, but finding this 
study dry and uninteresting, it was quickly 
laid aside. He frequently returned to his 
Kudiments on any little chagrin or disap- 
pointment, pa^rticularly in his love affairs ; 
but the Latin seldom predominated more 
than a day or two at a time, or a week at most. 
Observing himself the ridicule that would 
attach to this sort of conduct if it were 
known, he made two or three humorous 
stanzas on the subject, which I cannot now 
recollect, but they all ended, 

" So I'll to my Latin again." 

" Thus you see Mr. Murdoch was a prin- 
cipal means of my brother's improvement. 
Worthy man ; though foreign to my present 
purpose, I cannot take leave of him without 
tracing his future history. He continued for 
some years a respected and useful teacher at 
Ayr, till one evening that he had been over- 
taken in liquor, he happened to speak some- 
wtiat disrespectfully of Dr. Dairy mple, the 
parish minister, who had not paid him that 
attention to which he thought himself en- 
titled. In Ayr he might as well have spoken 



blasphemy. He found it proper to give up 
his appointment. He went to London, where 
he still lives, a private teacher of French. 
He has been a considerable time married, 
and keeps a shop of stationery wares. 

" The father of Dr. Patterson, now phy- 
sician at Ayr, was, I believe a native of 
Aberdeenshire, and was one of the estab- 
lished teachers in Ayr, when my father set- 
tled in the neighbourhood. He early recog- 
nized my father as a fellow native of the 
north of Scotland, and a certain decree of 
intimacy subsisted between them durmg Mr. 
Patterson's life. After his death, his widow, 
who is a very genteel woman, and of great 
worth, delighted in doing what she thought 
her husband would have wished to have 
done, and assiduously kept up her attentions 
to ail his acquaintance. She kept alive the 
intimacy with our family, by frequently in- 
viting my father and mother to her house on 
Sundays, when she met them at church. 

" When she came to know my brother':? 
passion for books, she kindly offered us the 
use of her husband's library, and from her 
we got the Spectator, Pope's Translation of 
Homer, and several other books that were of 
use to us. Mount Oliphant, the farm my 
father possessed in the parish of Ayr, is al- 
most the very poorest soil I know of in a 
state of cultivation. A stronger proof of this 
I cannot give, than that, notwithstanding 
the extraordinary rise in the value of lands 
in Scotland, it was after a considerable sum 
laid out in improving it by the proprietor, 
let a few years ago five pounds per annum 
lower than the rent paid for it by my father 
thirty years ago. My father, in consequence 
of this, soon came into difficulties, which 
were increased by the loss of several of his 
cattle by accidents and disease. — To the buf- 
fetings of misfortune, we could only oppose 
hard labour, and the most rigid economy. 
We lived very sparing. For several year.^ 
butcher's meat was a stranger in the house, 
while all the members of the family exerted 
themselves to the utmost of their strength, 
and rather beyond it, in the labours of the 
farm. My brother, at the age of thirteen, 
assisted in thrashing the crop of corn, and at 
fifteen was the principal labourer on the 
farm, for we had no hired servant, male or 
female. The anguish of mind we felt at our 
tender years, under these straits and difficul- 
ties, was very great. To think of our father 
growing old (for he was now above fifly,) 
broken down with the long continued fa- 
tigues of his life, with a wife and five other 
children, and in a declining state of circum- 
stances, these reflections produced in my 
brother's mind and mine sensations of the 
deepest distress. I doubt not but the hard 
labour and sorrow of this period of his life, 
was in a great measure the cause of that de- 
pression of spirits with which Robert was so 



18 



THE LIFE OP BURNS. 



often afflicted through his whole life after- 
wards. At this time he was almost constantly 
afflicted in the evenings with a dull head- 
ache, which at a future period of his life, was 
exchanged for a palpitation of the heart, and 
a threatening of fainting and suffocation in 
his bed in the night-time. 

" By a stipulation in my father's lease, 
he had a right to throw it up, if he thought 
proper, at the end of every sixth year. He 
attempted to fix himself in a better farm at 
the end of the first six years, but failing in 
that attempt, he continued where he was for 
six years more. He then took the farm of 
Lochlea, of 130 acres, at the rent of twenty 
shillings an acre, in the parish of Tarbolton, 

of Mr. , then a merchant in Ayr, and now 

^1797,^ a merchant in Liverpool. He re- 
moved to this farm on Whitsunday, 1777, 
and possessed it only seven years. No writ- 
ing had ever been made out of the condi- 
tions of the lease ; a misunderstanding took 
place respecting them ; the subjects in dis- 
pute were submitted to arbitration, and the 
decision involved my father's affairs in ruin. 
He lived to know of this decision, but not to 
see any execution in consequence of it. He 
died on the 13th of February, 1784. 

" The seven years we lived in Tarbolton 
parish (extending from the seventeenth to 
the twenty-fourth of my brother's age,) were 
not marked by much literary improvement ; 
but, during this time, the foundation was laid 
of certain habits in my brother's character, 
which afterwards became but too prominent, 
and which malice and envy have taken de- 
light to enlarge on. Though when young 
he was bashful and awkward in his inter- 
course with women, yet when he approached 
manhood, his attachment to their society be- 
came very strong, and he was constantly the 
victim of some fair enslaver. The symptoms 
of his passion were often such as nearly to 
equal those of the celebrated Sappho. I 
never indeed knew that he fainted, sunk, and 
died away; but the agitations of his mind 
and body exceeded any thing of the kind I 
ever knew in real life. He had always a 
particular jealousy of people who were richer 
than himself, or who had more consequence 
in life. His love, therefore, rarely settled 
on persons of this description. When he 
selected any one out of the sovereignty of 
his good pleasure, to whom he should pay 
his particular attention, she was instantly in- 
vested with a sufficient stock of charms, out 
of a plentiful store of his own imagination ; 
and there was often a great dissimilitude 
between his fair captivator, as she appeared 
to others, and as she seemed when invested 
with the attributes he gave her. One ge- 
nerally reigned paramount in his affections, 
but as Yorick's affections flowed out toward 
Madam de L — at the remise door, while the 
eternal vows of Eliza were upon him, so Ro- 



bert was frequently encountering other at- 
tractions, which formed so many underplots 
in the drama of his love. As these connex- 
ions were governed by the strictest rules of 
virtue and modesty (from which he never 
deviated till he reached his 23d year,) he be- 
came anxious to be in a situation to marry. 
This was not hkely to be soon the case while 
he remained a farmer, as the stocking of a 
farm required a sum of money he had no pio- 
bability of being master of for a great while. 
He began, therefore, to think of trying some 
other line of life. He and I had for several 
years taken land of my father for the purpose 
of raising flax on ©ur own account. In the 
course of selling it, Robert began to think of 
turning flax-dresser, both as being suitable 
to his grand view of settling in life, and as 
subservient to the flax raising. He accord- 
ingly wrought at the business of a flax- 
dresser in Irvine for six months, but aban- 
doned it at that period, as neither agreeing 
with his health nor inclination. In Irvine 
he had contracted some acquaintance of a 
freer manner of thinking and living than he 
had been used to, whose society prepared him 
for overleaping the bounds of rigid virtue 
which had hitherto restrained him. Towards 
the end of the period under review (in his 
24th year,) and soon after his father's death^ 
he was furnished with the subject of his 
epistle to John Ranklin. During this period 
also he became a freemason, which was his 
first introduction to the life of a boon com- 
panion. Yet, notwithstanding these circum- 
stances, and the praise he has bestowed on 
Scotch drink, (which seems to have misled 
his historians,) I do not recollect, during 
these seven years, nor till towards the end 
of his commencing author (when his grow- 
ing celebrity occasioned his being often in 
company.) to have ever seen him intoxicated ; 
nor was he at all given to drinking. A 
stronger proof of the general sobriety of his 
conduct need not be required than what I 
am about to give. During the whole of the 
time we lived in the farm of Lochlea with 
my father, he allowed my brother and me 
such wages for our labour as he gave to 
other labourers, as a part of which every 
article of our clothing manufactured in the 
family was regularly accounted for. When 
my father's affairs drew near a crisis, Robert 
and I took the farm of Mossgiel, consisting 
of 118 acres, at the rent of 9U/.. per annum 
(the farm on which I live at present,) from 
Mr. Gavin Hamilton, as an asylum for the 
family in case of the woist. It was stocked 
by the property and individual savings of the 
whole family, and was a joint concern among 
us. Every member of the family was allowed 
ordinary wages for the labour he performed 
on the farm. My brother's allowance and 
mine was seven pounds per annum each. 
And during the whole time this family con- 
cern lasted, which was four years, as well as 
during the preceding period at liOchlea, his 



THE LIFE OP BURNS* 



19 



expenses never in any one year exceeded 
his slender income. As I was entrusted with 
the keeping of the family accounts, it is not 
possible that there can be any fallacy in this 
statement in my brother's favour. His tem- 
perance and frugality were every thing that 
could be wished. 

" The farm of Mossgiel lies very high, and 
mostly on a cold wet bottom. The first four 
years that we were on the farm were very 
frosty, and the spring was very late. Our 
crops in consequence were very unprofitable ; 
and, notwithstanding our utmost diligence 
and economy, we found ourselves obliged to 
give up our bargain, with the loss of a con- 
siderable part of our original stock. It was 
during these four years that Robert formed 
his connexion with Jean Armour, afterwards 
Mrs. Burns. This connexion could no longer 
he concealed, about the time we came to a 
final determination to quit the farm. Robert 
durst not engage with his family in his poor 
unsettled state, but was anxious to shield his 
partner, by every means in his power, from 
the consequence of their imprudence. It was 
agreed therefore betw^een them, that they 
should make a legal acknowledgment of an 
irregular and private marriage ; that he 
should go to Jamaica to push his fortune ! 
and that she should remain with her father 
till it might please Providence to put the 
means of supporting a family in his power. 

''Mrs. Burns was a great favourite of her 
father's. The intimation of a marriage was 
the first suggestion he received of her real 
situation. He was in the greatesft distress, 
and fainted away. The marriage did not 
appear to him to make the matter better. A 
husband in Jamaica appeared to him and his 
wife little better than none, and an effectual 
bar to any other prospects of a settlement in 
life that their daughter might have. They 
therefore expressed a wish to her, that the 
written papers which respected the marriage 
should be cancelled, and thus the marriage 
rendered void. In her melancholy state she 
felt the deepest remorse at having brought 
such heavy affliction on parents that loved 
her so tenderly, and submitted to their en- 
treaties. Their wish was mentioned to Ro- 
bert. He felt the deepest anguish of mind. 
He offered to stay at home, and provide for 
his wife and family in the best mnnner that 
his daily labours could provide for them ; 
that being the only means in his power. 
Even this offer they did not approve of; for 
humble as Miss Armour's station was, and 
great though her imprudence had been, she 
still, in the eyes of her partial parents, might 
look to a better connexion than that with my 
friendless and unhappy brother, at that time 
without house or biding place. Robert at 
length consented to their wishes ; but his 
feelings on this occasion were of the most 
•distracting nature : and the impression of 

26 



sorrow was not effaced, till by a regular 
marriage they were indissolubly united. In 
the state of mind which this separation pro- 
duced, he wished to leave the country as 
soon as possible, and agreed with Dr. Doug- 
las to go out to Jamaica as an assistant over- 
seer; or, as I believe it is called, a book' 
keeper, on his estate. As he had not suffi- 
cient money to pay his passage, and the ves' 
sel in which Dr. Douglas was to procure a 
passage for him was not expected to sail for 
some time, Mr. Hamilton advised him to 
publish his poems in the mean time by sub- 
scription, as a likely way of getting a little 
money, to provide him more liberally in ne- 
cessaries for Jamaica. Agreeably to this 
advice, subscription bills were printed im^ 
mediately, and the printing was commenced 
at Kilmarnock, his preparations going on at 
the same time for his voyage. The reception, 
however, which his poems met with in the 
world, and the friends they procured him, 
made him change his resolution of going to 
Jamaica, and he was advised to go to Edin- 
burgh to publish a second edition. On his 
return, in happier circumstances, ho renewed 
his connexion with Mrs. Burns, and rendered 
it permanent by a union for life. 

" Thus, Madam, have I endeavoured in 
give you a simple narrative of the leading 
circumstances in my brother's early life. 
The remaining part he spent in Edinburgh, 
or in Dumfriesshire, and its incidents are as 
well known to you as to me. His genius 
having procured him your patronage and 
friendship, this gave rise to the correspon- 
dence between you, in which, I believe, his 
sentiments were delivered with the most 
respectful, but most unreserved confidence, 
and which only terminated with the last 
days of his life." 



This narrative of Gilbert Burns may serve 
as a commentary on the preceding sketch 
of our poet's life by himsalf. It will be seen 
that the distraction of mind which he men- 
tions {p. 16.) arose from the distress and 
sorrow in which he had involved his future 
wife. — The whole circumstances attending 
this connexion are certainly of a very singU'- 
lar nature.* 

The reader will perceive, from the fore- 
going narrative, how much the children of 
William Burnes were indebted to their fa?^ 
ther, who was certainly a man of uncommon 

* In page 16, the poet mentions liis — " skulk- 
ing from coveri to covert, under the terror of a 
jail." The " pack of the law" was " uncoupled 
at his heels," to oblige him to find security for 
the maintenance of his twin children, whom he 
was not permitted to legitimate by a marriaae 
■v^ith their mother. 



20 



THE LIFE OF BUKNJs. 



talents ; Ihoug'h it does not appear that he i 
possessed any portion of that vivid imagina- ' 
tion for which the subject of these memoirs 
was distinguished. In page 13, it is ob- 
served by our poet, that his father had an un- 
accountable antipathy to dancing-schools, 
and that his attending one of these brought 
on him his displeasure, and even dislike. On 
tliis observation Gilbert has made the follow- 
ing remark, which seems entitled to implicit 
credit: — " I wonder how Robert could attri- 
bute to our father that lasting resentment of 
his going to a dancing- school against his 
will, ofwliich he was incapable. I believe 
the truth was, that he, about this time, began 
to see the dangerous impetuosity of ray bro- 
ther's passions, as well as his not being ame- 
nable to counsel, which often irritated my 
father ; and which he would naturally think 
a dancing-school was not likely to correct. 
But he was proud of Robert's genius, which 
he bestowed more expense in cultivating 
than on the rest of the family, in the in- 
stances of sending him to Ayr and Kirk- 
Oswald schools; and he was greatly delighted 
with his warmth of heart, and his conversa- 
tional powers. He had indeed that dislike of 
dancing-schools which Robert mentions , but 
so far overcame it during Robert's first month 
of attendance, that he allowed all the rest of 
the family that were fit for it to accompany 
him during the second month. Robert ex- 
celled in dancing, and was for some time dis- 
tractedly fond of it." 

In the original letter to Dr. Moore, our 
poet described his ancestors as " renting 
lands of the noble Keiths of Marischal, and 
as having had the honour of sharing their 
fate." " I do not," continues he, " use the 
word honour with any reference to political 
principles ; loijal and disloyal, I take to be 
merely relative terms, in that ancient and 
formidable court, known in this country by 
the name of Club-law, where the right is al- 
ways with the strongest. But those who 
dare welcome ruin, and shake hands with in- 
famy, for what they sincerely believe to be 
the cause of their God, or their king, are, as 
Mark Antony says in Shakspeare of Brutus 
and Cassius, honourable men. I mention 
this circumstance because it threw my fa- 
ther on the world at large." 

This paragraph has been omitted in print- 
ing the letter, at the desire of Gilbert Burns ; 
and it would have been unnecessary to have 
noticed it on the present occasion, had not 
several manuscript copies of that letter been 
in circulation. " I do not know," observes 
Gilbert Burns, " how my brother could be 
misled in the account he has given of the 
Jacobitism of his ancestors. — I believe the 
earl Marischal forfeited his title and estate 
in 1715, before my father was born: and 
among a collection of parish certificates in his 
possession, I have read one, stating that the 



bearer liad no concern in the late wickedre- 
bcllion.''' On the information of one, who 
knew William Burnes soon after he arrived in 
the county of Ayr, it may be mentioned, that 
a report did prevail, that he had taken the 
field with the young Chevalier ; a report 
which the certificate mentioned by his son 
was, perhaps, intended to counteract. Stran- 
gers from the north, settling in the low 
country of Scotland, were in those days 
liable to suspicions of having been, in the fa- 
miliar phrase of the country, "Out in the 
forty-five," (1745) especially when they had 
any stateliness or reserve about them, as 
was the case with William Burnes. It may 
easily be conceived, that our poet would 
cherish the beliefof his father's having been 
engaged in the daring enterprise of Prince 
Charles Edward. The generous attachments, 
the heroic valour, and the final misfortune, 
of the adherents of the house nf Stewart, 
touched with sympathy his youthful and ar- 
dent mind, and influfenced his original poli- 
tical opinions.* 

The father of our poet is described by one 
who knew him towards the latter end of his 
life, as above the common stature, thin, and 
bent with labour. His countenance was 
serious and expressive, and the scanty locks 
on his head were gray. He was of a reli- 
gious turn of mind, and, as is usual among 



* There is another observation of Gilbert Burns 
on his brother's narrative, in which some persons 
will be interested. It refers to where the poet 
speaks of his youthful friends. " jMy brother," 
says Gilbert Burns, " seems to set off his early 
companions in too consequential a manner. The 
principal acquaintances we had in Ayr, while 
boys, were four sons of Mr. Andrew M'CuUocb, 
a distant relation of my mother's, who kept a tea 
shop, and iiad made a little money in the contra- 
band trade, very common at that time. He died 
while the boys were young, and my father was 
nominated one of the tutors. The two eldest 
were bred up shopkeepers, the third a surgeon, 
and the youngest, the only surviving one, was 
bred in a counting-house in Glasgow, where he is 
now a respectable merchant. 1 believe all these 
boys went to the West Indies. Then there were 
two sons of Dr. Malcolm, whom I have mentioned 
in my letter to Mrs. Dunlop. The eldest, a very 
worthy young man, went to the East Indies, 
where he had a commission in the army ; be is 
the person whose heart my brother says the 
Muny Begun scenes could not corrupt. The 
other by the interest of Lady Wallace, got an en- 
signcy in a regiment raised by the Duke of Ha- 
milton, during the American war. I believe 
neither of them are now (1797) alive. We also 
knew the present Dr. Paierson of Ayr, and a 
younger brother of his now in Jamaica, who were 
much younger than us. I had almost forgot to 
mention Dr. Charles of Ayr, who was a little 
older than my brother, and with whom we had 
a longer and closer intimacy than with any of 
the others, which did not, however, continue in 
after life." 



THE LIFE OF BURKS- 



^1 



the Scottish peasantry, a good deal con- 
versant in speculative theology. There is in 
Gilbert's hands a little manual of religious 
belief, in the form of a dialogue between a 
father and his son, composed by liim for the 
use of his children, in which the benevolence 
of his heart seems to have led him to soften 
the rigid Calvinism of the Scottish Church, 
into something approaching to Arminianism. 
He was a devout man, and in the practice of 
calling his family together to join in prayer. 
It is known that the exquisite picture, drawn 
in stanzas xii. xiii. xiv. xv. xvi. and xviii. of 
the Cotter's Saturday Kight, represents Wil- 
liam Burnes and his family at their evening 
devotions. 

Of a family so interesting as that which 
inhabited the cottage of William Burnes, 
and particularly of the father of the family, 
the reader will perliaps be willing to listen 
to some farther account. What follows is 
given by one already mentioned with so 
much honour in the narrative of Gilbert 
Burns, Mr. Murdoch, the preceptor of our 
poet, who, in a letter to Joseph Cooper 
Walker, Esq of Dublin, author ot the His- 
torical Memoirs of the Irish Bards, and the 
Historical Memoirs of the Italian Tragedy, 
thus expresses himself: 

'' Sir, — I wns lately favoured with a letter 
from our worthy friend, the Rev. William 
Adair, in which he requested me to commu- 
nicate to you whatever particulars I could 
recollect concerning Robert Burns, the Ayr- 
shire poet. My business being at present 
multifarious and harrassing, my attention is 
consequently so much divided, and I am so 
little in the habit of expressing my thoughts 
on paper, that at this distance of time I can 
give but a very imperfect sketch of the early 
part of the life of that extraordinary genius, 
with which alone I am acquainted. 

"William Barnes, the father of the poet, 
was born in the shire of Kincardine, and bred 
a gardener. He had been settled in Ayrshire 
ten or twelve years before I knew him, and 
had been in the service of Mr. Crawford, of 
Doonside. He was afterwards employed as 
a gardener and overseer by Provost Fergu- 
son of Doonholm, in the parish of Allovvay, 
which is now united with that of Ayr. In 
this parish, on tlie road side, a Scotch mile 
and a half from the town of Ayr. and half a 
mile from the bridge of Doon, William Burnes 
took a piece of land, consisting of about seven 
acres ; part of which he laid out in garden 
' ground, and part of which he kept to graze a 
cow, &c. still continuing in the employ of 
Provost Ferguson. Upon this little farm 
I was erected an humble dwelling, of which 
\ William Burnes was the architect, It was, 
, with the exception of a little straw, literally 
r a tabernacle of clay. In this mean cottage, 
of which I myself was at times an inhabitont, 



I really believe there dwelt a larger portion 
of content than in any palace in Europe. 
The Cotter's Saturday A'ight will give some 
idea of the temper and manners that prevailed 
there. 

" In 1765, about the middle of March, Mr. 
W. Burnes came to Ayr, and sent to the 
school where I was improving in writing, 
under my good friend Mr. Robinson, desiring 
that I would come and speak to him at a cer- 
tain inn, and bring my writing-book with 
me. This was immediately complied with. 
Having examined my writing, he was pleased 
with it — (you will readily allow he was not 
difficult,) and told me that he had received 
very satisfactory information of Mr.Tennant, 
the master of the English school, concerning 
my improvement in English, and his method 
of teaching. In the month of May following, 
I was engaged by Mr. Burnes, and four of 
his neighbours, to teach, and accordingly 
began to teach the little school at Alloway, 
which was situated a few yards from the ar- 
gillaceous fabric above-mentioned. My five 
employers undertook to board me by turns, 
and to make up a certain salary, at the end 
of the year, provided my quarterly payments 
from the different pupils did not amount to 
that sum. 

" My pupil, Robert Burns, was then be- 
tween six and seven years of age ; his pre- 
ceptor about eighteen. Robert, and his 
younger brother, Gilbert, had been grounded 
a little in English before they were put under 
my care. They both made a rapid progress 
in reading, and a tolerable progress in writing. 
In reading, dividing words into syllables b}' 
rule, spelling without book, parsing sen- 
tences, &c. Robert and Gilbert were gene- 
rally at the upper end of the class, even when 
ranged with boys by far their seniors. The 
books most commonly used in the school 
were the Spelling Book, the Acio Testament, 
the Bible, Mason's Collection of prose and 
verse,a.nd Fisher's English Grammar. They 
committed to memory the hymns, and other 
poems of that collection, with uncommon fa- 
cility. This facility was partly owing to the 
method pursued by their father and me in 
instructing them, which was, to make them 
thoroughly acquainted with the meaning of 
every word in each sentence that was to bo 
committed to memory. By the by, this may 
be easier done, and at an earlier period than 
is generally thought. As soon as they were 
capable of it, I taught them to turn verse in- 
to its natural prose order ; sometimes to sub- 
stitute synonymous expressions for poetical 
words, and to supply all the ellipses. These, 
you know, are the means of knowing that 
the pupil understands his author. These 
are excellent helps to the arrangement of 
words in sentences, as well as to a variety of 
expression. 

"Gilbert always appeared to metopo*- 






THE LIFE OP BURNS* 



sess a more lively imagination, and to be 
mere of the wit than Robert. I attempted 
to teach them a little church music : here 
they were left far behind by all the rest of the 
school. Robert's ear, in particular, was re- 
markably dull, and his voice untunable. It 
was long before I could get them to distin- 
guish one tune from another. Robert's 
countenance was generally grave, and ex- 
pressive of a serious, contemplative, and 
thoughtful mind. Gilbert's face said. Mirth 
with thee I mean to live; and certainly, if 
any person who knew the two boys, had been 
asked which of them was most likely to court 
the muses, he would surely never have guess- 
ed that Robert had a propensity of that kind. 

" In the year 1769, Mr. Burnes quitted his 
mud edifice, and took possession of a farm 
(Mount Oliphant) of his own improving, 
while in the service of Provost Ferguson. 
This farm being at a considerable distance 
from the school, the boys could not attend 
regularly ; and some changes taking place 
among the other supporters of the school, I 
left it, having continued to conduct it for 
nearly two years and a half. 

" In the year 1772, 1 was appointed (being 
one of five candidates who wrto examined) 
to teach the English school at Ayr ; and in 
1773, Robert Burns came to board and lodge 
with me, for the purpose of revising the Eng- 
lish grammar, &c. that he might be better 
qualified to instruct his brothers and sisters 
at home. He was now with me day and 
night, in school, at all meals, and in all my 
walks. At the end of one week, I told him, 
that as he was now pretty much master of 
the parts of speech, &c. I should like to 
teach him something of French pronuncia- 
tion; that when he should meet with the 
name of a French town, ship, officer, or the 
like, in the newspapers, he might be able to 
pronounce it something like a French word 
Robert was glad to hear this proposal, and 
immediately we attacked the French with 
great courage. 

" Now there was little else to be heard but 
the declension of nouns, the conjugation of 
verbs, &c. When walking together, and 
even at meals, I was constantly telling him 
the names of different objects, as they pre- 
sented themselves, in French ; so that he 
was hourly laying in a stock of words, and 
sometimes little phrases. In short, he took 
such pleasure in learning, and I in teaching, 
that it was difficult to say which of the two 
was most zealous in the business ; and about 
the end of the second week of our study of 
the French, we began to read a little of the 
Adventures of Telemachus, in Fenelon's own 
words. 

" But now the plain* of Mount Oliphant 
began to whiten, and Robert was summoned 



to relinquish the pleasing scenes that sur- 
rounded the grotto of Calypso ; and armed 
with a sickle, to seek glory by signalizing 
himself in the fields of Ceres — and so he did; 
for although but about fifteen, I was told 
that he performed the work of a man. 

** Thus was I deprived of my very aptpu* 
pil, and consequently agreeable companion, 
at the end of three weeks, one of which was 
spent entirely in the study of English, and 
the other two chiefly in that of French. I 
did not, however, lose sight of him; but was 
a frequent visitant at his father's house, when 
I had my half-holiday ; and very often went, 
accompanied with one or two persons more 
intelligent than myself, that good William 
Burnes might enjoy a mental feast. Then 
the labouring oar was shifted to some other 
hand. The father and the son sat down with 
us, when we enjoyed a conversation, where- 
in solid reasoning, sensible remark, and a 
moderate seasoning of jocularity, were so 
nicely blended, as to render it palateable to 
all parties. Robert had a hundred questions 
to ask me about the French, «&c. ; and the 
father, who had always rational information 
in view, had still some question to propose 
to my more learned friends, upon moral or 
natural philosophy, or some such interesting 
subject. Mr.«?. Bnrnes too was of the party 
as much as possible ; 

'But still the house affairs would draw her thence, 
Which ever as she could with haste despatch, 
She'd come again, and with a greedy ear. 
Devour up their discourse.'— 

and particularly that of her husband. At all 
times, and in all companies, she listened to 
him with a more marked attention than to 
any body else. When under the necessity 
of being absent while he was speaking, she 
seemed to regret, as a real loss, that she had 
missed what the good man had said. This 
worthy woman, Agnes Brown, had the most 
thorough esteem for her husband of any wo- 
man I ever knew. 1 can by no means won- 
der that she highly esteemed him ; for I my- 
self have always considered William Burnes 
as by far the best of the human race that 
ever I had the pleasure of being acquainted 
with — and many a worthy character I have 
known. I can cheerfully join with Robert, 
in the last line of his epitaph (borrowed from 
Goldsmith,) 

•♦And even his failings leaned to virtue's side." 

" He was an excellent husband, if I may 
judge from his assiduous attention to the 
ease and comfort of his worthy partner, and 
from her affectionate behaviour to him, as 
well as her unwearied attention to the duties 
of a mother. 

" He was a tender and affectionate father; 
he took pleasure in leading bis children in 



THE LIFE OF BUKnS. 



23 



the patli of virtue ; not in driving them as 
some parents do, to the performance of du- 
ties to which they themselves are averse. 
He took care to find fault but very seldom ; 
and therefore, when he did rebuke, he was 
listened to with a kind of reverential awe. 
A look of disapprobation was felt ; a reproof 
was severely so ; and a stripe with the tawz, 
Bven on the skirt of the coat, gave heartfelt 
pain, produced a loud lamentation, and 
brought forth a flood of tears. 

" He had the a^t of gaining the esteem 
and good-will of tjiose that were labourers 
under him, I think I never saw him angry 
but twice ; the one time it was with the fore- 
man of the band, for not reaping the field as 
he was desired ; and the other time it was 
with an old man, for using smutty inuendoes 
and double entendres Were every foul 
mouthed old man to receive a seasonable 
check in this way, it would be to the advan- 
tage of the rising generation. As he was at 
no time overbearing to inferiors, he was 
equally incapable of that passive, pitiful, pal- 
try spirit, that induces some people to keep 
booing and booing in the presence of a great 
man. He always treated superiors with a 
becoming respect ; but he never gave the 
smallest encouragement to aristocratical ar- 
rogance. But I must not pretend to give you 
a description of all the manly qualities, the 
rational and Christian virtues, of the venera- 
ble William Burnes. Time would fail me. 
I shall only add, that he carefully practised 
every known duty, and avoided every thing 
that was criminal ; or, in the apostle's words. 
Herein did he exercise himself in living a 
life void of offence towards God and towards 
men. O for a world of men of such disposi- 
tions ! We should then have no wars. I 
have often wished, for the good of mankind, 
that it were as customary to honour and per- 
petuate the memory of those who excel in 
moral rectitude, as it is to extol what are 
called heroic actions : then would the mau- 
soleum of the friend of my youth overtop and 
surpass most of the monuments I see in 
Westminster Abbey. 

" Although 1 cannot do justice to the cha- 
racter of this worthy man, yet you will per- 
ceive from these few particulars, what kind 
of person had the principal hand in the edu- 
cution of our poet. He spoke the English 
language with more propriety (both with 
respect to diction and pronunciation) than 
any man 1 ever knew with no greater ad- 
vantages. This hdd a very good effect on 
the boys, who began to talk, and reason like 
men, much sooner than their neighbours. 1 
do not recollect any of their contemporaries, 
at my little seminary, who afterwards made 
any great figure, as literary characters, ex- 
cept Dr. Tennant, who was chaplain to Col. 
Fullarton's regiment, and who is now in the 
JJast Indies, He is a man of srenius and 



learnings yet aftable, and free from pe- 
dantry. 

" Mr. Burnes, in a short time, found that 
he had over-rated Mount Oliphant, and that 
he could not rear his numerous family upon 
it. After being there some years, he re- 
moved to Lochlea, in the parish of Tarbol- 
ton, where, I believe, Robert wrote most of 
his poems. 

" But here, Sir, you will permit me to pause. 
I can tell you but little more relative to our 
poet. I shall, however, in my next, send 
you a copy of one of his letters to me, about 
the year 1783. I received one since, but it 
is mislaid. Please remember me, in the 
best manner, to my worthy friend Mr, Adair, 
when you see him, or write to him." 

" Hart-street, BLoomsbury- Square, 
London, Feb. 22, 1799." 

As the narrative of Gilbert Burns was 
written at a time when he was ignorant of 
the existence of the preceding narrative of 
his brother, so this letter of Mr, Murdoch 
was written without his having any know- 
ledge that either of his pupils had been em- 
ployed on the same subject. The three re- 
lations serve, therefore, not merely to illus- 
trate, but to authenticate each other. Though 
the information they convey might have been 
presented within a shorter compass, by re- 
ducing the whole into one unbroken narra- 
tive, it is scarcely to be doubted, that the 
intelligent reader will be far more gratified 
by a sight of these original documents them- 
selves. 

Under the humble roof of his parents, it 
appears indeed that our poet had great ad- 
vantages ; but his opportunities of informa- 
tion at school were more limited as to time 
than they usually are among his country- 
men in his condition of life ; and the acquisi- 
tions which he made, and the poetical talent 
which he exerted, under the pressure of 
early and incessant toil, and of inferior, and 
perhaps scanty nutriment, testify at once 
the extraordinary force and activity of his 
mind. In his frame of body he rose nearly 
to five feet ten inches, and assumed the pro- 
portions that indicate agility as well as 
strength. In the various labours of the farm 
he excelled all his competitors. Gilbert 
Burns declares, that in mowing, the exer- 
cise that tries all the muscles most severely, 
Robert was the only man that, at the end of 
a summer's day, he was ever obliged to ac- 
knowledge as his master. But though our 
poet gave the powers of his body to the la- 
bours of the farm, he refused to bestow on 
them his thoughts or his cares. While the 
ploughshare under his guidance passed 
through the sward, or the grass fell under 
the sweep of his scythe, he was humming 
the songs of his country, musing on the 



24 



THE LIFE OF BLllKS, 



deeds of ancient valour, or wrapt in the il- 
lusions of fancy, as her enchantments rose 
on his view. Happily the Sunday is yet a 
sabbath, on which man and beast rest from 
their labours. On this day, therefore, Burns 
could indulge in a free intercourse with the 
charms of nature It was his drlight to wan- 
der alone on the banks of the Ayr, whose 
stream is now immortal, and to listen to the 
song of the blackbird at the close of the sum- 
mer's day. But still greater was his plea- 
sure, as he himself informs us, in walking on 
the sheltered side of a wood, in a cloudy 
winter day, and hearing the storm rave 
among the trees; and more elevated still his 
delight, to ascend some eminence during the 
agitations of nature : to stride along its sum- 
mit, while the lightning flashed around him ; 
and amidst the bowlings of the tempest, to 
apostrophize the spirit of the storm. Such 
situations he declares most favourable to de- 
votion. — " Rapt in enthusiasm, 1 seem to as- 
cend towards Him who walks on the wings 
of the winds .'" If other proofs were want- 
ing of the character of his genius, this might 
determine it. The heart of the poet is pe- 
culiarly awake to every impression of beauty 
and sublimity ; but, with the higher order 
of poets, the beautiful is less attractive than 
the sublime. 

The gaiety of many of Burns's writings, 
and the lively, and even cheerful colouring 
with which he has pourtrayed his own cha- 
racter, may lead some persons to suppose, 
that the melancholy which hung over him 
towards the end of his days, was not an ori- 
ginal part of his constitution. It is not to be 
doubted, indeed, t-at this melai cVoly^ oc- 
quired a darker hue in the progress oi his 
life ; but, independent of his own and of his 
brother's testimony, evidence is to be found 
among his papers, that he was subject very 
early to those depressions of mind, which are 
perhaps not wholly separate from the sonsi- 
bility of genius, but which in him rose to an 
uncommon degree. The following letter, 
addressed to his father, will serve as a proof 
of this observation. It was written at the 
time when he was learning the business of a 
flax-dresser, and is dated, 

Irvine, December, 27, 1781. 
*•' Honoured Sir — I have purposely delayed 
writing, in the hope that I should have the 
pleasure of seeing you on New-year's-day; 
but work comes so hard upon us, that I do 
not choose to be absent on that account, as 
well as for some other little reasons, which 
I shall tell you at r^ieeting. My health is 
nearly the same as whetv you were here, 
only my sleep is a little sounder ; and, on 
the whole, I am rather better than other- 
wise, though I mend by very slow degrees. 
The weakness of my nerves has so debili- 
tated my mind, that I dare neither review 
past wants, nor look forward into futurity ; 



for the least anxiety or perturbation in my 
breast, produces most unhappy effects on my 
whole frame. Sometimes, indeed, when for 
an hour or two my spirits are a little light- 
ened, I glimmer into futurity ; but my prin- 
cipal, and indeed my only pleasurable em- 
ployment, is looking backwards and for- 
wards in a moral and religious way. I am 
transported at the thought, that ere long, I 
shall bid an eternal adieu to all the pains, and 
uneasiness, and disquietudes of this weary 
life , for I assure you I am heartily tired of 
it ; and, if I do not very much deceive my- 
self, I could contentedly and gladly resign it, 

* The soul, uneasy, and confin'd at home, 
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.' 

'* It is for this reason I am more pleased 
with the 15th, 16th, and 17th verses of the 
7th chapter of Revelations, than with any 
ten times as many verses in the •-< hole Bible, 
and would not exchange the noble enthusi- 
asm with which they inspire me, for all that 
this woild has to offer.* As for this world, I 
despair of ever making a figure in it. I am 
not formed for the bustle of the busy, norths 
flutter of the gay. I shall never again be 
capable of entering into such scenes. In- 
deed I am altogether unconcerned at the 
thoughts of this life. I foresee that poverty 
and obscurity probably await me. I am in 
some measure prepared, and daily preparing 
to meet them. I have but just time and pa- 
per to return you my grateful thanks for the 
lessons of virtue and piety you have given 
me, which were too much neglected at the 
time of giving them, but which, I hope, have 
been remembered ere it is yet too late. Pre- 
sent my dutiful respects to my mother, and 
iny compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Muir ; and 
with wishing you a mer^-y new-year's-day, I 
shall conclude. I am, honoured Sir, your 
dutiful son, 

" Robert Burns." 

" P. S. My meal is nearly out ; but I am 
going to borrow till I get more." 

This letter, written several years before 
the publication of his poems, when his name 
was as obscure as his condition was humble, 
displays the philosophic melancholy which 
so generally forms the poetical temperament, 
and that buoyant and ambitious spirit which 

* The verses of Scripture here aUuded to, are 
as follows: 

15. Therefore are they before the throne of 
God, and serve him day and night in his temple ; 
aiid he that sitteth ou the throne shall dwell 
among them. 

16. They shall hunger no more, neither thirst 
any more ; neither shall the sun light on them, 
nor any heat. 

17. For the Lamb, which is in the midst of the 
throne, shall feed them, and shall lead them un- 
to living fountains of waters; and God shall 
wipe away all tears from their pvpp. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



25 



indicates a mind conscious of its strength. 
At Irvine, Burns at this time possessed a 
single room for his lodging, rented perhaps 
at the rate of a shilling a week. He passed 
his days in constant labour as a flax-dresser, 
and his food consisted chiefly of oatmeal, 
sent to him from his father's family. The 
store of this humble, though wholesome nu- 
triment, it appears was nearly exhausted, 
and he was about lo borrow until he should 
obtain a supply. Yet even in this situation, 
his active imagination had formed to itself 
pictures of eminence and distinction. His 
despair of making a figure in the world, 
shows how ardently he wished for honoura- 
ble fame ; and his contempt of life founded 
on this despair, is the genuine expression of 
a youthful and generous mind. In such a 
state of reflection, and of suffering, the ima- 
gination of Burns, naturally passed the dark 
boundaries of our earthly horizon, and rested 
on those beautiful representations of a better 
world, where there is neither thirst, nor hun- 
ger, nor sorrow ; and where happiness shall 
be in proportion to the capacity of happiness. 

Such a disposition is far from being at va- 
riance with social enjoyments. Those who 
have studied the affinities of mind, know that 
a melancholy of this description, after a while, 
seeks relief in the endearments of society, 
and that it has no distant connexion with the 
flow of cheerfulness, or even the extrava- 
gance of mirth. It was a few days after the 
writing of this letter that our poet, " in giv- 
ing a welcome carousal to the new year, with 
his gay companions," suffered his flax to 
catch firC;, and his shop to be consumed to 
ashes. 

The energy of Burns's mind was not ex- 
hausted by his daily labours, the effusion of 
his mxise, his social pleasures, or his solitary 
meditations. Some time previous to his en- 
gagement as a flax-dresser, having heard 
that a debating club had been established in 
Ayr, he resolved to try how such a meeting 
would succeed in the village of Tarbolton. 
About the end of the year 1780, our poet, his 
brother, and five other young peasants of the 
neighbourhood, formed themselves into a so- 
ciety of this sort, the declared objects of 
which were to relax themselves after toil, to 
promote sociality and friendship, and to im- 
prove the mind. The laws and regulations 
were furnished by Burns. The members 
were to meet after the labours of the . day 
were over, once a week, in a small public- 
house in the village : where each should of- 
fer his opinion on a given question or sub- 
ject, supporting it by such arguments as he 
thought proper. The debate was to be con- 
ducted with order and decorum ; and after 
it was finished, the members were to choose 
a subject for discussion at the ensuing meet- 
ing. The sum expended by each was not to 
exceed thre« pence ; and, with the humble 



potation tliat this could procure, they wer& 
to toast their mistresses, and to cultivate 
friendship with each other. This society 
continued its meetings regularly for some 
time ; and in the autumn of 1782, wishing to 
preserve some account of their proceedings, 
they purchased a book into which their laws 
and regulations were copied, with a pream- 
ble, containing a short history of their trans- 
actions down to that period This curious 
document, which is evidently the work of 
our poet, has been discovered, and it de- 
serves a place in his memoirs. 

" History of the Rise, Proceedings, and Regula.- 
tions of the Bachelor^ s Club. 

" Of birth or blood we do not boast, 
Nor gentry does our club afford ; 

But ploughmen and mechanics we 
In Nature's simple dress record." 

" As the great end of human society is to 
become wiser and better, this ought there- 
fore to be the principal view of every man in 
every station of Hfe. But as experience has 
taught us, that such studies as inform the 
head and mend the heart, when long conti- 
nued, are apt to exhaust the faculties of the 
mind, it has been found proper to relieve and 
unbend the mind by some employment or 
another, that may be agreeable enough to 
keep its powers in exercise, but at the same 
time not so serious as to exhaust them. But, 
superadded to this, by far the greater part of 
mankind are under the necessity of earning 
the sustenance of human life by the labours 
of their bodies, whereby, not only the facul- 
ties of the mind, but the nerves and sinews 
of the body, are so fatigued, that it is abso- 
lutely necessary to have recourse to some 
amusement or diversion, to relieve the wea- 
ried man, worn down with the necessary la- 
bours of life. 

" As the best of things, however, have 
been perverted to the worst of purposes, so, 
under the pretence of amusement and diver- 
sion, men have plunged into all the madness 
of riot and dissipation; and, instead of at- 
tending to the grand design of human life, 
they have begun with extravagance and folly, 
and ended with guilt and wretchedness. Im- 
pressed with these considerations, we, the 
following lads in the parish of Tarbolton, viz. 
Hugh Reid, Robert Burns, Gilbert Burns, 
Alexander Brown, Walter Mitchell, Thomas 
Wright, and William M' Gavin, resolved, 
for our mutual entertainment, to unite our- 
selves into a club, or society, under such rules 
and regulations, that while we should forget 
our cares and labours in mirth and diversion, 
we might not transgress the bounds of inno- 
cence and decorum ; and after agreeing on 
these, and some other regulations, we held 
our first meeting at Tarbolton, in the house 
of John Richard, upon the evening of the 
11th of November, 1780, commonly called 



2S 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



Hallowe'en, and after choosing Robert Barns 
president for the night, we proceeded to de- 
bate on this question — Suppose a young man, 
bred a farmer, but without any fortune, has 
it in his power to marry either of ttoo women, 
the one a girl of large fort^ine, but neither 
handsome in person, nor agreeable in conver- 
sation, but who can manage the household 
affairs of a farm well enough ; the other of 
them a girl every way agreeable in person, 
conversation, and behaviour, but without any 
fortune : which of them shall he choose ? 
Finding ourselves very happy in our society, 
we resolved to continue to meet once a 
month in the same house, in the way and 
manner proposed, and shortly thereafter we 
chose Robert Ritchie for another member. 
In May 1781, we brought in David Sillar,* 
and in June, Adam Jamaison, as members. 
About the beginning of the year 17r^2, we ad- 
mitted Matthew Patterson, and John Orr, 
and in June following we chose James Pat- 
terson as a proper brother for such a society. 
The club being thus increased, we resolved 
to meet at Tarbolton on the race-night, the 
July following, and have a dance in honour 
of our society. Accordingly we did meet, 
each one with a partner, and spent the even- 
ing in such innocence and merriment, such 
cheerfulness and good humour, that every 
brother will long remember it with pleasure, 
and delight." To this preamble are subjoined 
the rules and regulations.! 

The philosophical mind will dwell with in- 
terest and pleasure, on an institution that 
combined so skilfully the means of instruc- 
tion and of happiness, and if grandeur look 
down with a smile on these simple annals, 
let us trust that it will be a smile of bene- 
volence and approbation. It is with regret 
that the sequel of the history of the Bache- 
lor's Club of Tarbolton must be told. It sur- 
vived several years after our poet removed 
from Ayrshire, but no longer sustained by 
his talents, or cemented by his social affec- 
tions, its meetings lost much of their attrac- 
tion ; and at length, in an evil hour, dis- 
sention arising amongst its members, the in- 
stitution was given up, and the records com- 
mitted to the flames. Happily the preamble 
and the regulations were spared ; and as 
matter of instruction and of example, they 
are transmitted to posterity. 

After the family of our bard removed from 
Tarbolton to the neighbourhood of Mauch- 
line, he and his brother were requested to 
assist in forming a similar institution there 
The regulations of the club at Mauchline 
were nearly the same as those of the club at 
Tarbolton : but one laudable alteration was 
made. The fines for non-attendance had at 

* The person to whom Burns addressed his 
Kpistle to Davie f a brother poet. 
f For which see Appendix, JVo. II. Jfoie C. 



Tarbolton been spent in enlarging their 
scanty potations ; at Mauchline it was fixed, 
that the money so arising, should be set apart 
for the purchase of books, and the first work 
procured in this manner was the Mirror, the 
separate numbers of which were at that time 
recently collected and published in volumes. 
After it, followed a number of other works, 
chiefly of the same nature, and among these 
the Lounger. The society of Mauchline still 
subsists, and appeared in the list of subscri- 
bers to the first edition of the works of its 
celebrated associate. 

The members of these two societies were 
originally all young men from the country, 
and chiefly sons of farmers ; a description of 
persons, in the opinion of our poet, more 
agreeable in their manners, more virtuous in 
their conduct, and more susceptible of im- 
provement, than the self-sufficient mechanics 
of country-towns. With deference to the 
conversation society of Mauchline, it may be 
doubted, whether the books which they pur- 
chased were of a kind best adapted to pro- 
mote the interest and happiness of persons 
in this situation of life. The Mirror and the 
Lounger, though works of great merit, may 
be said, on a general view of their contents, 
to be less calculated to increase the know- 
ledge, than to refine the taste of those who 
read them ; and to this last object, their mo- 
rality itself, which is however always per- 
fectly pure, may be considered as subordinate. 
As works of taste, they deserve great praise. 
They are, indeed, refined to a high degree of 
delicacy ; and to this circumstance it is per- 
haps owing, that they exhibit little or nothing 
of tJie peculiar manners of the age or coun- 
try in which they were produced. But de- 
licacy of taste, though the source of many 
pleasures, is not without some disadvantages ; 
and to render it desirable, the possessor 
should perhaps in all cases be raised above 
the necessity of bodily labour, unless indeed 
we should include under this term the exer- 
cise of the imitative arts, over which taste 
immediately presides. Delicacy of taste may 
be a blessing to him who has the disposal of 
his own time, and who can choose what book 
he shall read, of what diversion he shall par- 
take, and what company he shall keep. To 
men so situated, the cultivation of taste af- 
fords a grateful occupation in itself, and opens 
a path to many other gratifications. To men 
of genius, in the possession of opulence and 
leisure, the cultivation of the taste may be 
said to be essential ; since it affords employ- 
ment to those faculties, which without em- 
ployment would destroy the happiness of the 
possessor, and correct that morbid sensibility, 
or, to use the expressions of Mr. Hume, that 
delicacy of passion, which is the bane of the 
temperament of genius. Happy had it been 
for our bard, after he emerged from the con- 
dition of a peasant, had the delicacy of his 
taste equalled the sensibility of his passions, 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



27 



regulating all the effusions of his muse, and 
presiding overall his social enjoyments. But 
to the thousands who share the original con- 
dition of Burns, and who are doomed to pass 
their lives in the station in which they were 
born, delicacy of taste, were it even of easy 
attainment, would, if not a positive evil, 
be at least a doubtful blessinor. Delicacy of 
taste may make many ne essary labours irk- 
some or disgusting ; and should it render 
the cultivator of the soil unhappy in his situ- 
ation, it presents no means by which tliat si- 
tuation may be improved. Taste and lite- 
rature, which diffuse so many charms 
throughout society, which sometimes secure 
to their votaries distinction while living, and 
which still more frequently obtain for them 
posthumous fame, seldom procure opulence, 
or even independence, when cultivated with 
the utmost attention ; and can scarcely be 
pursued with advantage by the peasant in 
the short intervals of leisure which hi- occu- 
pations allow. Those who raise themselves 
frofn the condition of daily labour, are usual- 
ly men who excel in the practice of some 
useful art, or who join habits of industry and 
sobriety to an acquaintance with tjouieof the 
more common branches of knowledge. The 
penmanship of Butterworth, and the arith- 
metic of Cocker, may be studied by men in 
the humblest walks of life ; and they will 
assist the peasant more in the pursuit of in- 
dependence, than the study of Homer or of 
Shakspeare, though he could comprehend, 
and even imitate the beauties of those im- 
mortal bards. 

These observations are not offered without 
some portion of doubt and hesitation. The 
subject has many relations, and would jus- 
tify an ample discussion. It may be observed, 
on the other hand, that the first step to im- 
provement is to awaken the desire of im- 
provement, and that this will be most effec- 
tually done by such reading as interests the 
heart and excites the imagination. The 
greater part of the sacred writings them- 
selves, which in Scotland are more especial- 
ly the manual of the poor, come under this 
description. It may be farther observed, 
that every human being, is the proper judge 
of his own happiness, and within the path of 
innocence, ought to be permitted to pursue 
it. Since it is the ta&te of the Scottish pea- 
santry to give a preference to works of taste 
and of fancy,* it may be presumed they find 
a superior gratification in the perusal of such 
works ; and it may be added, that it is of 
more consequence they should be made hap- 
py in their original condition, than furnished 
with the means or the desire of rising above 



* In several lists of boo'i-societies among t)«; 
poorer classes in Scotland which the editor has 
seen, works of this description form a great part. 
These societies are by no means general, and it is 
not supposed that they are increasing at present. 



it. Such considerations are doubtless of 
much weight ; nevertheless, the previous 
reflections may deserve to be examined, and 
here we shall leave the subject. 

Though the records of the society at Tar- 
bolton are lost, and those of the society at 
Mauchline have not been transmitted, yet 
we may safely affirm, that our poet was a 
distinguished member of l)oth these associa- 
tions, which were well calculated to excite 
and to develope the powers of his mind. 
From seven to twelve pers.ms constituted 
the society of Tarbolton, and such a number 
is best suited to the purposes of information. 
Where this is the object of these societies, 
the number should be such, that each per- 
son may have an opportunity of imparting 
his ssntiments, as well as of receiving those 
of others; and the powersofpriv.ite conver- 
sation are to be employed, not thos© of pub- 
lic debate. A limited society of this kind, 
where the subject of conversation is fixed 
beforehand, so that each member may re- 
volve it previously in his mind, is perhaps 
one of the happiest contrivances hitherto 
discovered for shortening the acquisition of 
knowledge, and hastening the evolution of 
talents. Such an association requires in- 
deed somewhat more of regulation than the 
rules of politeness established in common 
conversation ; or rather, perhaps, it requires 
that the rules of politeness, which in anima- 
ted conversation are liable to perpetual vio- 
lation, should be vigorously enforced. The 
order of speech established in the club at 
Tarbolton, appears to have been more regu- 
lar than was required in so small ia society }* 
v/here all that is necessary seems to be the 
fixing on a member to whom every speaker 
shall address himself, and who shall in re- 
turn secure the speaker from interruption. 
Conversation, which among men whom in- 
timacy and friendship have relieved from re- 
serve and restraint, is liable, when left to it- 
self, to so many inequalities, and which, as 
it becomes rapid, so often diverges into se- 
parate and collateral branches, in which it 
is dissipated and lost, being kept within its 
channel by a simple limitation of thi^ kind, 
which practice renders easy an*' familiar, 
flows along in one full stream, 'ind becomes 
smoother, and clearer, an^' deeper, as it 
flows. It may also be oi-served, that in this 
way the acquisition t^' knowledge becomes 
more pleasant and more easy, from the gra- 
dual improvement of the faculty employed to 
convey it. T-kovgh some attention has been 
paid to the eloquence of the senate and the 
bar whi'^b in this, as in all other free go- 
ver»>-«i6"*S' ^^ productive of so much influ- 
t>iice to the few who excel in it, yet little re- 
gard has been paid to the humbler exercise 
of speech in private conversation ; an art 
that is of consequence to every description 

* See Appendix, No. II. pvote C. 



28 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



of persons under every form of government, 
and on which eloquence of every kind ought 
perhaps to be founded. 

The first requisite of every kind of elocu- 
tion, a distinct utterance, is the offspring of 
much time and of long practice. Children 
are always defective in clear articulation, 
and so are young people, though in a less 
degree. What is called slurring in speech, 
prevails with some persons through life, es- 
pecially in those who are taciturn. Articu- 
lation does not seem to reach its utmost de- 
gree of distinctness in men before the age of 
twenty, or upwards; in women it reaches 
tliis point somewhat earlier. Female occu- 
pations require much use of speech because 
they are duties in detail. Besides, their oc- 
cupations being generally sedentary, the res- 
piration is left at liberty. Their nerves 
being more delicaie, their sensibility as well 
as fancy is more lively ; the natural conse- 
quence of ivhich is, a more frequent utter- 
ance of thought, a greater fluency of speech, 
and a distinct articulation at an earlier age. 
But in men who have not mingled early and 
familiarly with the world, though rich per- 
haps in knowledge, and clear in apprehen- 
sion, it is often painful to observe the diffi- 
culty with which their ideas are communi- 
cated by speech, through the want of those 
habits that connect thoughts, words, and 
sounds together ; which, when established, 
seem as if they had arisen spontaneously, 
but which, in truth, are the result of long 
and painful practice ; and when analyzed, 
exhibit the phenomena of most curious and 
complicated association. 

Societies then, such as we have been de- 
scribing, while they may be said to put each 
member in possession of the knowledge of 
all the rest, improve the powers of utter- 
ance; and by the collision of opinion, excite 
the faculties of reason and reflection. To 
those who wish to improve their minds in 
such intervals of labour as the condition of 
a peasant allows, this method of abbreviat- 
ing instruction, may, under proper regula- 
tions,\in highly useiul. To the student, whose 
opinions, ^oringing out of solitary observa- 
tion and meJitation, are seldom in the first 
instance correv>, and which have, notwith- 
standing, while confined to himself, an in- 
creasing tendency to t^sume in his own eye 
the character of demonsu-at.'ons, an associa- 
tion of this kind, where \hey may be exa- 
mined as they arise, is of the utmost impor- 
tance ; since it may prevent these illusions 
of imagination, by which genius u»ing be- 
wildered, science is often debased, ana ojror 
propagated through successive generatioi« 
And to men who have cultivated letters, or 
general science in the course of their educa- 
tion, but who are engaged in the active oc- 
cupations of life, and no longer able to de- 
vote to study or to books the time requisite 



for improving or preserving their acquis}^ 
tions, associations of this kind, where the 
mind may unbend from its usual cares in 
discussions of literature or science, afford 
the most pleasing, the most useful, and the 
most rational of gratifications.* 

Whether in the humble societies of which 
he was a member, Burns acquired much di- 
rect information, may perhaps be questioned. 
It cannot however be doubted, that by colli- 
sion, the faculties of his mind would be ex- 
cited ; that by practice his habits of enun- 
ciation would be established ; and thus we 
have some Explanation of that early com- 
mand of words and of expression which ena- 
bled him to pour forth his thoughts in lan- 
guage not unworthy of his genius, and which, 
of all his endowments, seemed, on his appear- 
ance in Edinburgh, the most extraordinary.! 
For associations of a literary nature, our poet 
acquired a considerable relish ; and happy 
had it been for him, after he emerged from 
the condition of a peasant, if fortune had 
peijmitted him to enjoy them in the degree 
of which he was capable, so as to have forti- 
fied his principles of virtue by the purifica- 
tion of his taste j and given to the energies 
of his mind habits of exertion that might 



* When letters and philosophy were cultivated 
in ancient Greece, the press had not multiplied 
the tablets of learning and science, and necessity 
produced the habit of studying as it were in com- 
mon. Poets were found reciting their own verses 
in public assemblies; in public schools only phi- 
losophers delivered their speculations. The taste 
of the hearers, the ingenuity of the scholars, were 
employed in appreciating and examining the 
works of fancy and of speculation submitted to 
their consideration, and the irrevocable words 
were not given to the world before the composi- 
tion, as well as the sentiments, were again and 
again retouched and improved. Death alone put 
the last seal on the labours of genius. Hence, 
perhaps, may be in part explained the extraordi- 
nary art and skill with which the monuments of 
Grecian literature that remains to us, appear to 
have been constructed. 

f It appears that our Poet made more prepara- 
tion than might be supposed, for the discussion 
of the society of Tarbolton. There were found 
some detached memoranda, evidently prepared for 
these meetings : and, amongst others, the heads 
of a speech on the question mentioned in p. 29, 
in which, as might be expected, he takes the im- 
prudent side of the question. The following may 
serve as a farther specimen of the questions de- 
bated in the society at Tarbolton : — Whether do 
■we derive more happiness from love or friendship? 
Whether between friends, who have no reason to 
doubt each other^s friendship, there should be any 
reserve? Whether is the savage man, or the 
peasant of a civilized country, in the most happy 
iliuation ? Whether is a young man of the lower 
ranks of life likeliest to be happy, who has got a 
good education, and his mind well informed, or he 
who has just the education and information <rf 
those around him ? 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



29 



have excluded other associations, in which it 
must be acknowledged they were too often 
wasted, as w6ll as debased. 

The whole course of the Ayr is fine ; but 
the banks of that river, as it bends to the 
eastward above Mauchline, are singularly 
beautiful, and they were frequent^'d, as may 
be imagined, by our poet in his solitary, 
walks. Here the muse often visited him. 
In one of these wanderings, he met among 
the woods a celebrated beauty of the west 
of Scotland ; a lady, of whom it is said, that 
the charms of her person correspond with 
the character of her mind. This incident 
gave rise, as might be expected, to a poem, 
of which an account will be found in the fol- 
lowing letter, in which he inclosed it to the 
object of his inspiration : 

To Miss 



Mossgiel, 18th Nov. 1786. 

" Mad4M, — Poets are such outre beings, 
so much the children of wayward fancy and 
capricious whim, that I believe the world 
generally allows them a larger latitude in 
the laws of propriety, than the sober sons of 
judgment and prudence I mention this as 
an apology for the liberties that a nameless 
stranger has taken with you in the enclosed 
poem, which he begs leave to present you 
with. Whether it has poetical merit any 
way worthy of the theme, 1 am not the pro- 
per judge ; but it is the best my abilities can 
produce ; and, what to a good heart will per- 
haps be a superior grace, it is equally sin- 
cere as fervent. 

" The scenery was nearly taken from real 
life, though I dare say, Madam, you do not 
recollect it, as Ibelieve you scarcely noticed 
the poetic reveur as he wandered by you. I 
had roved out as chance directed, in the fa- 
vourite haunts of my muse on the banks of 
Ayr, to view nature in all the gayety of the 
vernal year. The evening sun vvas flaming 
over the distant western hills ; not a breath 
stirred the crimson opening blossom, or the 
verdant spreading leaf. It was a golden mo- 
ment for a poetic heart. I listened to the 
feathered warblers, pouring their harmony 
on every hand, with a congenial kindred re- 
gard, and frequently turned out of my path, 
lest I should disturb their little songs, or 
frighten them to another station. Surely, 
said I to myself, he must be a wretch in- 
deed, who, regardless of your harmonious 
endeavours to please him, can eye your elu- 
sive flights to discover your secret recesses, 
and to rob you of all the property nature 
gives you, your dearest comforts, your help- 
less nestlings. Even the hoary hawthorn 
twig that shot across the way, what heart at 
such a time but must have been interested 
in its welfare, and wished it preserved from 
the rudely browsing cattlC; or the withering 



eastern blast .? Such was the scene — and 
such the hour, when, \r\ a corner of my pros- 
pect, I spied one of the fairest pieces of Na- 
ture's workmanship that ever crowned a po- 
etic landscape, or met a poet's eye : those 
visionary bards excepted, who hold com- 
merce with ajrial beings! Had Calumny 
and Villany taken my walk, they had at that 
moment swoTn eternal peace with such an 
object. 

'' What an hour of inspiration for a poet ! 
It would have raised plain, dulj, historic 
prose into metaphor and measure. 

" The enclosed song* was the work of mj' 
return home; and perhaps it but poorly an- 
swers what might have been expected from 
such a scene. 

* « » * * 
" I have the honour to be, Madam, 
Your most obedient, 

and very humble servant, 
'' Robert Burns." 

In the manuscript book in which our poet 
has recounted this incident, and into which 
the letter and poem are copied, he complains 
that the lady made no reply to his eflPusions, 
and this appears to have wounded his self- 
love. It is not, however, difficult to find an 
excuse for her silence. Burns was at that 
time little known ; and where known at all, 
noted rather for the wild strength of his hu- 
mour, than for those strains of tenderness in 
which he afterwards so much excelled. To 
the lady herself his name had perhaps never 
been mentioned, and of such a poem she 
might not consider herself the proper judge. 
Her modesty might prevent her from per- 
ceiving that the muse of Tibullus breathed 
in this nameless poet, and that her beauty 
was awakening strains destined to immor- 
tality, on the banks of the Ayr. It may be 
conceived, also, that supposing the verse 
duly appreeiated, delicacy might find it diffi- 
cult to express its acknowledgments. The 
fervent imagmation of the rustic bard pos- 
sessed more of tendei-uess than of respect. 
Instead of raising himself to the condi- 
tion of the object of his admiration, he 
presumed to reduce her to his own, and to 
strain this high-born beauty to his daring bo- 
som. It is true. Burns might have found 
precedents for such freedom among the poets 
of Greece and Rome, and indeed of every 
country. And it is not to be deni<3d, that 
lovely women have generally submitted to 
this sort of profanation w'Mh patience, and 
even good humour. To what puipose is it 
to repine at a misfortune which is ihe neces- 
sary consequence of their own charms, or to 
remonstrate with a description of men who 
are incapable of control ? 

>' The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, 
Are of imagination all compact." 

* The song entitled the Lass of Ballochmyle. 



30 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



It may be easily presumed, that the beau- 
tiful nymph of Ballochmyle, whoever she 
may have been, did notreject with ficorn the 
adoiations of our poet, though she received 
them with silent modesty and dignified re- 
serve. 

The sensibility of our bard's temper, arid 
the force of his imagination, exposed him in 
a particular manner to the impressions of 
beauty ; and these qualities, united to his 
impassioned eloquence, gave in turn a power- 
ful influence over the female heart. The 
Banks of the Ayr formed the scene of youth- 
ful passions of a still tenderer nature, the his- 
tory ofw^hich it would be impropi r to reveal 
were it even in our power ; and the traces 
of which will soon be discoverable only in 
those strains of nature and sensibility to 
which they gave birth The S' ng entitled 
Highland Mary, is known to relate to one of 
these attachments. " It was written," says 
our bard, " on one of the most interesting 
passages of my youthful days." The object 
of this passion died early in life, and the im- 
pression left on the mind of Burns seems to 
have been deep and lasting. Several years 
afterwards, when he was removed to Niths- 
dale, he gave vent to the sensibility of his 
recollections in that impassioned poem, 
which is addressed to Mary in Heaven ! 

To the delineations of the poet by himself, 
by his brother, and by his tutor, these addi- 
tions are necessary, in order that the reader 
may see his character in its various aspects, 
and may have an opportunity of forming a 
just notion of the variety, as well as of the 
power of his original genius.* 



* The history of the poems formerly printed, 
will be found in the Appendix to this volume. It 
is inserted in the words of Gilbert Burns, who, in 
a letter addressed to the Editor, has given the 
following account of the friends which Robert's 
talents procured him before he left Ayrshire, or 
attracted the notice of the world. 

" The farm of Mossgiel, at the time of our 
coming to it, (Martinmas, 1783,) was the proper- 
ty of the Earl of Loudon, but was held in tack 
by Mr. Gavin Hamilton, writer in Mauchline, 
from whom we had our bargain ; who had thus 
an opportunity of knowing, and showing a sin- 
cere regard for my brother, before he knew that 
he was a poet. The poet's estimation of him, 
and the strong outlines of his character, may be 
collected from the dedication to this gentleman. 
When the publication was begun, Mr. H. en- 
tered very warmly into its interests, and pro- 
moted the subscription very extensively. Mr. 
Robert \iken, writer in Ayr, is a man of worth 
and taste, of warm aflfections and connected with 
a most respectaole circle of friends and relations. 
It is to this gentleman The CotUr^s Satwday 
JYighi'is inscribed. The poems of my brother, 
which I have formerly mentioned, no sooner 
came into his hands, than they were quickly 
iiiiown, and well received in the extensive circle 



We have dwelt the longer on the early 
part of his life, because it is the least 
known, and because, as has already been 
mentioned, this part of his history is con- 
nected with some views of the condition and 
manners of the humblest ranks of society, 
hitherto little observed, and which will per- 
haps be found neither useless or uninteresting. 

About the time of his leaving his native 
county, his correspondence commences; and 
in the series of letters ni.>w given to the 
world, the chief incidents of the remaining 
part of his life will be found. This authen- 
tic, though melancholy record, will super- 
sede m future the necessity of any extended 
narrative. 

Burns set out for Edinburgh in the month 
of November, 1786. He was furnished with 
a letter of introduction to Dr*. Blacklock, 
from the gentleman to whom the Doctor 
had addressed the letter which is represent- 
ed by our bard, as the immediate cause of his 
visiting the Scottish metropolis. He was 
acquainted with Mr. Stewart, Professor of 
Moral Philosophy in the University ; and 
had been entertained by that gentleman at 
Catrine, his estate in Ayrshire. He had 
been introduced by Mr. Alexander Dalzel to 
the Earl of Glencairn, who had expressed 
his high approbation of his poetical talents. 
He had friends therefore who could intro- 
duce him into the circles of literature as well 
as of fashion, and his own manners and ap- 
pearance exceeding every expectation that 
could have been formed of them, he soon be- 
came an object of general curiosity and ad- 
miration. The following circumstance con- 

of Mr. Aiken's friends, which gave them a sort of 
currency, necessary in this wise world, even for 
the good reception of things valuable in them- 
selves. But Mr. Aiken not only admired the 
poet ; as soon as he became acquainted with him, 
he showed the warmest regard for the man, and 
did every thing in his power to forward his in- 
terest and respectability The Epistle to a Young 
Friend was addressed to this gentleman's son, 
Mr. A. H. Aiken, now of Liverpool. He was the 
oldest of a young family, who were taught to re- 
ceive my brother with respect, as a man of genius, 
and their father's friend. 

" The Brigs of Ayr is inscribed to John Bal- 
lentine, Esq. banker in Ayr; one of those gen- 
tlemen to whom my brother was introduced by 
Mr. Aiken. He interested himself very warmly 
in my brother's concerns, and constantly showed 
the greatest friendship and attachment to him. 
When the Kilmarnock edition was all sold off, 
and a considerable demand pointed out the pro- 
priety of publishing a second edition, Mr. Wilson, 
who had printed the first, was asked if he would 
print the second, and take his chance of being 
paid from the first sale. This he declined, and 
when this came to Mr. Ballentine's knowledge, 
i he generously offered to accommodate Robert 
1 with what money he might need for that pur* 



THE LIFE OF BURNS'. • 



31 



tributed to this in a considerable degree. At 
the time when Burns arrived in Edinburgh, 
the periodical paper, entitled The Lounger, 
Was publishing every Saturday, producing a 
successive number. His poems had attract- 
ed the notice of the gentlemen engaged in 
that undertaking, and. the ninety-seventh 
number of those unequal, though frequently 
beautiful essays, is devoted to An Jlccount of 
Robert Burns, the Ayrshire Ploughman, tcith 
extracts from his Poems, written by the ele- 
gant pen of Mr. Mackenzie.* The Lounger 
had an extensive circulation among persons 
of taste and literature, not in Scotland only, 
but in various parts of England, t. whose 
acquaintance therefore our bard was imme- 
diately introduced. The paper of Mr. Mac- 
kenzie was calculated to introduce him ad- 
vantageously. The extracts are well se- 
lected ; the criticisms and reflections are ju- 
dicious as well as generous ; and in the style 
and sentiments there is that happy delicacy, 
by which the writings of the author are so 

pose; but advised him to go to Edinburgh, as 
the fittest place for publishing. When he did go 
to Edinburgh, his friends advised him to publish 
again by subscription, so that he did not need to 
accept this offer. Mr. William Parker, merchant 
in Kilmarnock, was a subscriber for thirty-five 
copies of the Kilmarnock edition. This may 
perhaps appear not deserving of notice here ; but 
if the comparative obscurity of the poet, at this 
period, be taken into consideration, it appears to 
me a greater effort of generosity, than many 
things which appear more brilliant in my bro- 
ther's future history. 

" Mr. Robert Muir, merchant in Kilmarnock, 
was one of those friends Robert's poetry had pro- 
cured him, and one who was dear to his heart. 
This gentleman had no very great fortune, or long 
line of dignified ancestry ; but what Robert says, 
of Captain Matthew Henderson, might be said of 
him with great propriety, that he held the patent 
of his honours immediately from Almighty God, 
Nature had indeed marked him a gentleman in 
the most legible characters. He died while yet a 
young man, soon after the publication of my bro- 
ther's first Edinburgh edition. Sir William Cun- 
ningham of Robertland, paid a very flattering at- 
tention, and showed a good deal of friendship tor 
the poet. Before his going to Edinburgh, as well 
as after, Robert seemed peculiarly pleased with 
Professor Stewart's friendship and conversation. 

" But of all the friendships which Robert ac- 
quired in Ayrshire and elsewhere, none seemed 
more agreeable to him than that of Mrs. Dunlop, 
of Dunlop; nor any which has been more uni- 
formly and constantly exerted in behalf of him 
and his family, of which, were it proper, I could 
give many instances. Robert was on the point 
of setting out for Edinburgh before Mrs. Dunlop 
had heard of him. About the time of my bro- 
ther's publishing in Kilmarnock, she had been 
afHicted with along and severe illness, which had 
reduced her mind to the most distressing state of 
depression. In this situation, a copy of the 
printed poems was laid on her table by a friend ; 



eminently distinguished. The extracts from 
Burns's poems in the ninety-seventh num- 
ber of The Lounger were copied into the 
London as well as the provincial papers, and 
the fame of our bard spread throughout the 
island. Of the manners, character, and con- 
duct of Burns at this period, the following 
account has bee • given by Mr Stewart, Pro- 
fessor of Moral Philosophy in the University 
of Edinburgh, in a letter to the editor, whicn 
he is particularly happy to have obtained 
permission to insert in these memoirs. 

" The first time I saw Robert Burns wa& 
on thg 2.M of October, 1786, when he dined 
at my house in Ayrshire, together with our 
common fiiend iVlr. John Mackenzie, sur- 
geon, in Mauchline, to whom T am indebted 
lor the pleasure of his acquaintance. I am 
enabled to mention the date particularly, by 
some verses which Burns wrote after he re- 
turned home, and in which the day of our 
meeting is recorded. — My excellent and 

and happening to open on The Cotter^s Saturday 
j\ight, she read it over with the greatest plea- 
sure and surprise ; the poet's description of the 
simple cottagers, operating on her mind like the 
charm of a powerful exorcist, expelling the de- 
mon ennui, and restoring her to her wonted in- 
ward harmony and satisfaction. Mrs. Dunlop 
sent off a person express to Mossgiel, distant fit- 
teen or sixtLcn miles, with a very obliging letter 
to my brother desiring him to senci her half a 
dozen copies of his poems, if he had them to 
spare, and begging he would do her the pleasure 
of calling at Dunlop House as soon as convenient. 
This was the beginning of a correspondence 
which ended only with the poet's life. The last 
use he made of his pen was writing a short letter 
to this lady a few days before his death. 

"Colonel FuUarton, who afterwards paid a 
very particular attention to the poet, was not in 
the country at the time of his first commencing 
author. Atthisdistanceof time, and in the hurry 
of a wet day, snatched from laborious occupa- 
tions, I may have forgot some persons who ought 
to have been mentioned on this occasion ; for 
which, if it come to my knowledge, I shall be 
heartily sorry." 

The friendship of Mrs. Dunlop was of particu- 
lar value to Burns. This lady, daughter and sole 
heiress to Sir Thomas Wallace of Craigie, and 
lineal descendent of the illustrious Wallace, the 
first of Scottish warriors, possesses ihe qualities 
of mind suited to her high lineage. Preserving, 
in the decline of life, the generous affections of 
youth ; her admiration of the poet was soon ac- 
companied by a sincere friendship for the man ; 
which pursued him in after-life through good and 
evil report; in poverty, in sickness, and Jn sor- 
row ; and which is continued to his infant family, 
now deprived of their parent. 

* This paper has been attributed, but impro- 
perly, to Lord Craig, one of the Scottish judges, 
author ofthe very interesting account of Michael 
Bruce in the 36th number of The Mirrvr, 



32 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



much lamented friend, the late Basil, Lord 
Daer. happened to arrive at Catrine the same 
day, and by the kindness and frankness of 
his manners, left an impression on the mind 
of tlie poet which never was effaced. The 
verses I allude to are among the most imper- 
fect of his pieces ; but a few stanzas may 
perhaps be an object of curiosity to you, 
both on account of the character to which 
they relate, and of the Hglit which they 
throw on the situation and feelings of tiie 
writer, before his name was known to the 
public* 

" I cannot positively say at this distance 
of timcj whether at the period of our first 
acquaintance, the Kilii^arnock edition of his 
poems had been just published, or was yet 
in the press. I suspect that the latter was 
the case, as I have siill in my possessicm co- 
pies in his own hand writing, of some of his 
favourite performances ; particularly of his 
vef-ses " On turning up a Mouse with his 
Plough ;" — " On the Mountain Daisy ;" and 
*' the Lament." On my return to Edinburgh, 
I showed the volume, and mentioned what I 
knew of the author's history to several of my 
friends ; and, among others, to Mr. Henry 
Mackenzie, who first recommended him to 
public notice in the 97th number of the 
Lounger. 

" At this time Burns's prospects in life 
were so extremely gloomy, that he had se- 
riously formed a plan of going out to Jamai- 
ca in a very humble situation, not however 
without lamenting that his want of patron- 
age should force him to think of a project so 
repugnant to his feelings, when his ambition 
aimed at no higher an object than the sta- 
tion of an exciseman or gauger in his own 
country. 

"His manners were then, as they conti- 
nued ever afterwards, simple, manly, and in- 
dependent; strongly expressive of conscious 
genius and worth; but without any thing 
that indicated forwardness, arrogance, or 
vanity. He took his share in conversation, 
but not more than belonged to him ; and lis- 
tened with apparent attention and deference 
on subjects where his want of education de- 
prived him of the means of information. If 
there had been a little more gentleness and 
accommodation in his temper, he would, I 
think, have been still more interesting ; but 
he had been accustomed to give law in the 
circle of his ordinary acquaintance; and his 
dread of any thing approaching to meanness 
or servility, rendered his manner somewhat 
decided and hard. Nothing, perhaps, was 
more remarkable among his various attain- 
ments, than the fluency and precision, and 
originality of his language, when he spoke 

* See the poem entitled " Lines on an Inter- 
view with Lord Daer." — Poems, p. 82. 



in company ; more particularly as he aimed 
at purity in his turn of expression, and 
avoided more successfully than most Scotch- 
men, the peculiarities of Scottish phraseo- 
logy- 

'' He came to Edinburgh early in the win- 
ter following, and remaii.ed there for several 
months. By whose advice he took this step, 
I am uiiable to say. Perhaps it was sug- 
gested only by his own curiosity to see a lit- 
tle more of the world ; but, I confess, I 
dreaded the consequences from theiirst, and 
always wished that his pursuits and habits 
should continue the same as in the former 
part of life; with the addition of what I con- 
sidered as then completely within his reach, 
a good farm on moderate terms, in a part of 
the country agreeable to his taste. 

" The attentions he received during his 
stay in town, from all ranks and descriptions 
of persons, were such as would have turned 
any head but his own. I cannot say that I 
could perceive any unfavourable effect which 
they left on his mind. He retained the same 
simplicity of manners and appearance which 
had struck me so forcibly when I first saw 
him in the country ; n'-r did he seem to feel 
any additional self-importance from the num- 
ber and rank of his new acquaintance. His 
dress was perfectly suited to his station, 
plain, and unpretending, with a sufficient at- 
tention to neatness. If 1 recollect right he 
always wore boots; and, when on more than 
usual ceremony, buck-skin breeches. 

" The variety of his engagements, while 
in Edinburgh, prevented me from seeing him 
so oflen as I could have wished. In the 
course of the spring he called on me once or 
twice, at my request, earlv in the morning, 
and walked with me to Braid Hills, in the 
neighbourhood of the town, when he charmed 
me still more by his private conversation, 
than he had ever- done in company. He was 
passionately fond of the beauties of nature; 
and I recollect once he told me when I wjis 
admiring a distant prospect in one of our 
morning walks, that the sight of so many 
smoking cottages gave a pleasure to his 
mind, which none could understand who had 
not witnessed, like himself, the happiness 
and the worth which they contained. 

" In his political principles he was then a 
Jacobite ; which was perhaps owing partly 
to this, that his father was originally from 
the estate of Lord Mareschall. Indeed he 
did not appear to have thought much on such 
subjects, nor very consistently. He had a 
very strong sense of religion, and expressed 
deep regret at the levity with which he had 
heard it treated occasionally in some convi- 
vial meetings which he frequented. I speak 
of him as he was in the winter of 178t)-7; 
for afterwards we met but seldom^ and our 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



Conversations turned chiefly on his literary 
projects, or his private affairs. 

" I do not recollect whether it appears or 
not from any of your letters to me, that you 
had ever seen Burns.* If you have, it is su- 
perfluous for me to add, that the idea which 
his conversation conveyed of the powers of 
his mind, exceeded, if possible, that which is 
suggested by his writings. Among the poets 
whom I have happened to know, I have been 
struck, in more than one instance, with the 
unaccountable disparity between their gene- 
ral talents, and the occasional inspirations of 
their more favourable moments. But all the 
faculties of Burns's mind were, as far as I 
could judge, equally vigorous ; and his pre- 
diliction for poetry was rather the result of 
Iiis own enthusiastic and impassioned tem- 
per, than of a genius exclusively adapted to 
that species of composition. From his con- 
versation I should have pronounced him to 
be fitted to excel in whatever walk of ambi- 
tion he had chosen to exert his abilities. 

" Among the subjects on which he was ac- 
customed to dwell, the characters of the in- 
dividuals with whom he happened to meet, 
was plainly a favourite one. The remarks he 
made on them were always shrewd and point- 
ed, though frequently inclining too much to 
sarcasm. His praise of those he loved was 
sometimes indiscriminate and extravagant ,: 
but this, I suspect, proceeded rather from the 
caprice and humour of the moment, than 
from the effects of attachment in blinding 
his judgment. His wit was ready, and al- 
ways impressed with the marks of a vigorous 
understanding; but to my taste, not often 
pleasing or happy. His attempts at epigram, 
in his printed works, are the only perform- 
ances, perhaps, that he has produced, totally 
unworthy of his genius. 

"In summer, 1787, I passed some weeks 
in Ayrshire, and saw Burns occasionally. I 
think that he made a pretty long excursion 
that season to the Highlands, and that he 
also visited what Beattie calls the Arcadian 
ground of Scotland, upon the banks of the 
Tiviot and the Tweed. 

'' 1 should have mentioned before, that 
notwithstanding various reports I heard dur- 
ing the preceding winter, of Burns's pre- 
dilection for convivial, and not very select 
society, I should have concluded in favor of 
his habits of sobriety, from all of him that 
ever fell under my own observation. He 
told me indeed himself, that the weakness 
of his stomach was such as to deprive him 
entirely of any merit in his temperance. I 
was however somewhat a larmed about the 
effect of his now comparatively sedentary 

* The Editor has seen and conversed with 
Burns. 



and luxurious life, when he confessed to me, 
the first night he spent in my Imuse after his 
winter's campaign in town, that he had been 
much disturbed when in bed, by a palpita- 
tion of his heart ; which, he said, was a com- 
plaint to which he had of late become sub- 
ject. 

'' In the course of the same season, I was 
led by curiosity to attend for an hour or two 
a Mason-Lodge in Mauchline, where Burns 
presided. He had occasion to make some 
short unpremeditated compliments to differ- 
ent individuals, from whom he had no reason 
to expect a visit, and every thing he said was 
happily conceived, and forcibly as well as 
fluently expressed. If I am not mistaken, he 
told me that in that village, before going to 
Edinburgh, he had belonged to a small club 
of such of the inhabitants as had a taste for 
books, when they used to converse and de- 
bate on any interesting questions that oc- 
curred to them in the course of their read- 
ing. His manner of speaking in public had 
evidently the marks of some practice in ex- 
tempore elocution. 

" I must not omit to mention, what I have 
always considered as characteristic in a high 
degree of true genius, the extreme facility 
and good nature of his taste in judging of 
the compositions of others, where there was 
any real ground for praise. I repeated to 
him many passages of English poetry with 
which he was unacquainted, and have more 
than once witnessed the tears of admiration 
and rapture with which he heard them. The 
collection of songs by Dr. Aiken, which I 
first put into his hands, he read with unmix- 
ed delight, notwithstanding his former ef- 
forts in that very difiicult species of writing; 
and I have little doubt that it had some ef- 
fect in polishing his subsequent compositions. 

" In judging of prose, I do not think his 
taste was equally sound. I once read to him 
a passage or two in Franklin's Works, which 
I thought very happily executed upon the 
model of Addison ; but he did not appear to 
relish, or to perceive the beauty which they 
derived from their simplicity, and spoke of 
them with indifference, when compared with 
the point, and antithesis, and quaintness of 
Junius. The influence of this taste is very 
perceptible in his own prose compositions, 
although their great and various excellen- 
ces render some of them scarcely less objects 
of wonder than his poetical performances. 
The late Dr. Robertson used to say, that con- 
sidering his education, the former seemed to 
him the more extraordinary of the two. 

" His memory was uncommonly retentive, 
at least for poetry, of which he recited to me 
frequently long compositions with the most 
minute accuracy. They were chiefly bal- 
lads, and other pieces in our Scottish dialect ; 



34 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



great part of them (he told me) he had learn- 
ed in his childhood from his mother, who 
delighted in such recitations, and whose po- 
etical taste, rude as it probably was, gave, it 
is presumable, the first direction to her son's 
genius. 

" Of the more polished verses which ac- 
cidentally fell into his hands in his early 
years, he mentioned particularly the recom- 
mendatory poems, by different authors, pre- 
fixed to Hervey's Meditations ; a book which 
has always had a very wide circulation among 
such of the country people of Scotland, as 
affect to unite some degree nf taste with their 
religious studies. And these poems (al- 
though they are certainly below mediocrity) 
he continued to read with a degree of rap- 
ture beyond expression He took notice of 
this fact himself, as a proof how much the 
taste is liable to be influenced by accidental 
circumstances. 

" His father appeared to me, from Che ac- 
count he gave of him, to have been a res- 
pectable and worthy character, possessed of 
a mind superior to what might have been 
expected from his station in Ufe. He ascribed 
much of his own principles and feelings to 
the early impressions he had received, from 
his instruction and example. I recollect that 
he once applied to him (and he added, that 
the passage was a literal statement of fact) 
the two last lines of the following passage in 
the Minstrel : the whole of which he re- 
peated with great enthusiasm ; 

Shall I be left forgotten in the dust, 

When fate, relenting, lets the flower revive ? 
Shall nature's voice, to man alone unjust, 

Bid him, though doom'd to perish, hope to live .'' 
Is it for this fair virtue oft must strive, 

With disappointment, penury, and pain ^ 
No ! Heaven's immortal spring shall yet arrive; 

And man's majestic beauty bloom again, 
Bright thro' the eternal year of love's triumphant 

reign. 
This truth sublime, his simple sire had tavghi: 
In sooth, ^twas almost all the shepherd knew. 

" With respect to Burns's early education, 
I cannot say any thing with certainty. He 
always spoke with respect and gratitude of 
the schoolmaster who had taught bin-, to read 
English ; and who, finding in his scholar a 
more than ordinary ardour for knowledge, 
had been at pains to instruct him in the 

Grammatical principles of the language. He 
egan the study of Latin, and dropt it be- 
fore he "had finished the verbs. 1 have some- 
times heard hirh quote a few Latin words, 
Buch as omnia vincit amor, Sec. but they 
seemed to be such as he had caught from 
conversation, and which he repeated by rote. 
I think he had a project, after he came to 
Edinburgh, of prosecuting the study under 



his intimate friend, the late Mr. Nicol, one of 
the masters of the grammar-school here ; 
but I do not know that he ever proceeded so 
far as to make the attempt. 

" He certainly possessed a smattering of 
French ; and, if he had an affectation in any 
thing, it was in introducing occasionally a 
word or phrase from that language. It is 
possible that his knoveledge in this respect 
might be more extesjsive than I suppose it 
to be ; but this you can 'learn from his more 
intimate acquaintance. It would be worth 
while to inquire, whether he was able to read 
the French authors with such facility as to 
receive from them any improvement to his 
taste. For raj' own part, I doubt it much ; 
nor would I believe it, but on very strong 
and pointed evidence. 

" If my memory does not fail me, he was 
well instructed in arithmetic, and knew some- 
thing of practical geometry, particularly of 
surveying — all his other attainments were 
entirely his own. 

" The last time I saw him was during the 
winter, 1788-89,* when he passed an even- 
ing with me at Drumseugh, in the neigh- 
bourhood of Edinburgh, where I was then 
living. My friend. Mr. Alison, was the only 
other person in company. 1 never saw him 
more agreeable or interesting. A present 
which Mr. Alison sent him afterwards of his 
Essays on Taste, drew from Burns a letter 
of acknowledgmtmt, which I remember to 
have read with sotne degree of surprise at 
the distinct conception he appeared from it 
to have formed of the general principles of 
the doctrine of association. When I saw Mr. 
Alison in Shropshire last autumn, I forgot 
to mquire if the letter be still in existence. 
If it is, you may easily procure it, by means 
of our friend Mr Houlbrooke."t 



The scene that opened on our bard in 
Edinburgh was altogether new, and in a va- 
riety of other respects highly interesting, 
especially to one of his disposition of mind. 
To use an expression of his own, he found 
himself, " suddenly translated from the ve- 
riest f»hades of life," into the presence, and, 
indeed, into the society of a number of per- 
sons, previously known to him by report as 
of the highest distinction in his country, and 
whose characters it was natural for him to 
examine with no common curiosity. 

* Or rather 1789-90. I cannot speak with 
confidence with respect to the particular year. 
Some of my other dates may possibly require 
correction, as I keep no journal of such occur- 
rences. 

■f This letter is No. CXIV. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



35 



From the men of letters, in general, his 
reception was particularly flattering. The 
Hate Dr. Robertson, Dr. Blair, Dr. Gregory, 
Mr. Stewart, Mr. Mackenzie, and Mr. Fra- 
zer Tytler, may be mentioned in the list of 
those who perceived his uncommon talents,. 
who acknowledged more especially his pow- 
ers in conversation, and who interested them- 
selves in the cultivation of his genius. In 
Edinburgh, litei'ary and fashionable society 
are a good deal mixed. Our bard was an ac- 
ceptable guest in the gayest and most ele- 
vated circles, and frequently received from 
female beauty and elegance, those attentions 
above all others most grateful to him. At 
the table of Lord Monboddo he was a fre- 
quent guest; and while he enjoyed the so- 
ciety, and partook of the hospitalities of the 
venerable judge, he experienced the kind- 
ness and condescension of his lovely and ac- 
complished daughter. The singular beanty 
of this young lady was illuminated by that 
happy expression of countenance which re- 
sults from the union of cultivated taste and 
superior understanding, with the finest af- 
fections of the mind. The influence of such 
attractions was not unfelt by our poet." — 
" There has not been any thing like Miss 
Burnet, (said he in a letter to a friend,) in 
all the combination of beauty, grace, and 
goodness the Creator has formed, since Mil- 
ton's Eve, on the first day of her existence." 
In his Address to Edinburgh, she is cele- 
brated in a strain of still greater elevation : 

"Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, 
Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine ! 

I see the Sire of Love on liigh, 

knd own his work indeed divine I" 

This lovely woman died a few years after- 
wards in the flower of youth. Our bard ex- 
pressed his sensibility on that occasion, in 
verses addressed to her memory. 

Among the men of rank and fashion, 
Burns was particularly distinguished by 
James, Earl of Glencairn. On the motion 
of this nobleman, the Caledonian Hunt, an 
association of the principal of the nobility 
and gentry of Scotland, extended their pa- 
tronage to our bard, and admitted him to 
their gay orgies. He repaid their notice by 
a dedication of the enlarged and improved 
edition of his poems, in which he has cele- 
brated their patriotism and independence in 
very animated terms. 

" I congratulate my country that the blood 
of her ancient heroes runs uncontaminatcd ; 
and that, from your courage, knowledge, and 
public spirit, she may expect protection, 
wealth and liberty. * * * * j\Iay ^qj.. 
ruption shrink at your kindling indignant 
glance ; and may tyranny in the Ruler, and 
licentiousness in the People, equally find in 
you an inexorable foe."* 

* See Dedication prefixed to the Poems. 

28 



It is to be presumed that these generous 
sentiments, uttered at an era singularly pro- 
pitious to independence of character and 
conduct^ were favourably received by the 
persons to whom they were addressed, and 
that they were echoed from every bosom, as 
well as from that of the Earl of Glencairn. 
This accomplished nobleman, a scholar, a 
man of taste and sensibility, died soon after- 
wards. Had he lived, and had his power 
equalled his wishes, Scotland might still 
have exulted in the genius, instead of la- 
menting the early fate of her favourite bard. 

A taste for letters is not always conjoined 
with habits of temperance and regularity ; 
and Edinburgh, at the period of which we 
speak, contained perhaps an uncommon pro- 
portion of men of considerable talents, dc' 
voted to social excesses, in which thoir ta- 
lents were wasted and debased. 

Burns entered into several parties of this 
description, with the usual vehemence of his 
character. His generous affections, his ar- 
dent eloquence, his brilliant and daring ima- 
gination, fitted him to be the idol of such 
associations ; and accustomed himself to con- 
versation of unlimited range, and to festive 
indulgences that scorned restraint, he gra- 
dually lost some portion of his relish for the 
more pure, but less poignant pleasures, to be 
found in the circles of taste, elegance, and 
literature. The sudden alteration in his 
habits of life operated on him physically as 
well as morally. The humble fare of an 
Ayrshire peasant he had exchanged for the 
luxuries of the Scottish metropolis, and the 
effects of this change on his ardent constitu- 
tion could not be inconsiderable. But what- 
ever influence might be produced on his 
conduct, his excellent understanding suf- 
fered no corresponding debasement. He es- 
timated his friends and associates of every 
description at their proper value, and ap- 
preciated his own conduct with a precision 
that might give scope to much curious and 
melancholy reflection. He saw his danger, 
and at times formed resolutions to guard 
against it ; but he had embarked on the tide 
of dissipation, and was borne along its 
stream. 

Of the state of his mind at this time, an 
authentic, though imperfect document, re- 
mains, in a book which he procured in the 
spring of 1787, for the purpose, as he him- 
self informs us, of recording" in it whatever 
seemed worthy of observation. The follow- 
ing extracts may serve as a specimen : 

Edinhtirgh, April 9, 1787. 
" As I have seen a good deal of human life 
in Edinburgh, a great many characters which 
are new to one bred up in the shades of life 
as I have been, I am determined to take 
down my remarks on the spot. Gray ob' 



36 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



serves, ia a letter to Mr. Palgrave, that j 
' half a word fixed upon, or near the spot, is 
worth a cart load of recollection.' 1 don't 
know how it is with the world in general, j 
but with me, making my remarks is by no 1 
means a solitary pleasure. I want some one I 
to laugh with me, some one to be grave with 1 
me, some one to please me and help my dis- 1 
crimination, with his or her own remark, and ] 
at times, no doubt, to admire my acuteness 
and penetration. The world are so busied 
with selfish pursuits, ambition, vanity, interest 
or pleasure, that very few think it worth their i 
while to make any observation on what passes 
around them, except where that observation j 
is a sucker, or branch of the darling plant 
they are rearing in their fancy. Nor am I 
sure, notwithstanding all the sentimental ; 
flights of novel-writers, and the sage philo- 
sophy of moralists, whether we are capable 
of so intimate and cordial a coalition of frimid- 
ship, as that one man may pour out his bo- 
som, his every thought and floating fancy, 
his very inmost soul, with unreserved confi- 
dence to another, without hazard of losing 
part of that respect which man deserves from 
man ; or, from the unavoidable imperfections 
attending human nature, of one day repent- 
ing his confidence. 

*' For these reasons I am determined to 
make these pages my confidant, I will sketch 
every character that any way strikes me, to 
the best of my power, with unshrinking jus- 
tice. I will insert anecdotes, and take down 
remarks in the old law phrase, loithoutfeud 
or favour. — Where I hit on any thing clever, 
my own applause will, in some measure, feast 
my vanity ; and begging Patroclus' and Acha- 
tes' pardon, I thirdt a lock and key a securi- 
ty, at least equal to the bosom of any friend 
whatever. 

" My own private story likewise, my love 
adventures, my rambles; the frowns and 
smiles of fortune on my hardship ; my poems 
and fragments, that must never see the light, 
shall be occasionally inserted. — In short, ne- 
ver di4 four shillings purchase so much 
friendship, since confidence first went to 
market, or honesty was set up to sale. 

" To these seemingly invidious, but too 
just ideas of human friendship, I would 
cheerfully make one exception — the connex- 
ion between two persons of different sexes, 
when their interests are united and absorbed 
by the tie oi love — 

When thought meets thought, ere from the lips it 
part, 

And each warm wish springs mutual from the 
heart. 

There confidence, confiderK»e that exalts 
them the more in one another's opinion, 
that endears them the inore to each other's 
hearts, unreservedly * reigns and revels.' 



But this is not ni)^ lot ; and, in my situation, 
if I am wise, (which, by the by, I have no 
great chance of being,) my fate should be 
cast with the Psalmist's sparrow, ' to watch 
alone on the house-tops.' — Oh ! the pity ! 



" There are few of the sore evils under 
the sun give me more uneasiness and cha- 
grin than the comparison how a man of ge- 
nius, nay, of avowed worth, is received every 
where, with the reception which a mere or- 
dinary character, decorated with the trap- 
pings and futile distinctions of fortune meets. 
I imagine a man of abilities, his breast glow- 
ing with honest pride, conscious that men 
are born equal, still giving honour to whom 
honour is due ; he meets at a great man's 
table, a Squire something, or a Sir some- 
body ; he knows the notis landlord, at heart, 
gives the bard, or whatever he is, a share of 
his good wishes, beyond, perhaps, any one at 
table ; yet how will it mortify him to see a 
fellow, whose abilities would scarcely have 
made an eight-penny tailor, and whose heart 
is not worth three farthings, meet with at- 
tention and notice, that are withheld from 
the son of genius and poverty ? 

" The noble Glencairn has wounded me 
to the soul here, because I dearly esteem, 
respect, and love him. He showed so much 
attention, engrossing attention one day, to 
the only blockhead at table (the whole com- 
pany consisting of his lordship, dunderpate, 
and mjself,) that I was within half a point of 
throwing down my gage of contemptuous 
defiance ; but he shook my hand, and looked 
so benevolently good at parting. God bless 
him ! though I should never see him more, I 
shall love him until my dying day ! I am 
pleased to think I am so capable of the throes 
of gratitude, as I am miserably deficient in 
some other virtues. 

" With Dr. Blair I am more at my ease, 
I never respect him with humble veneration ; 
but when he kindly interests himself in my 
welfare, or still more, when he descends 
from his pinnacle, and meets me on equal 
gro\md in conversation, my heart overflows 
with what is called liking. When he neg- 
lects me for the mere carcass of greatness, 
or when his eye measures the difference of 
our points of elevation, I say to myself, with 
scarcely any emotion, what do I care for him 
or his pomp either .'" 

* ^f- * » ■» 

The intentions of the poet in procuring 
this book, so fully described by himself, were 
very imperfectly executed. He has inserted 
in it few or no incidents, but several obser- 
vations and reflections, of which the greater 
part that are proper for the public eye, will 
, be found interwoven in his letters. The most 
curious particulars in the book are the de- 



THE LIFE OP BURNS. 



37 



iineations of the characters he met with. 
These are not numerous ; but they are chief- 
ly of persons of distinction in the repubhc of 
letters, and nothing but delicacy and respect 
due to Hving characters prevents us from 
committing them to the press. Though it 
appears that in his conversation he was 
sometimes disposed to sarcastic remarks on 
the men with whom he lived, nothing of this 
kind is discoverable in these more deliberate 
efforts of his understanding, which, w^hile 
they exhibit great clearness of discrimina- 
tion, manifest also the wish, as well as the. 
power to bestow high and generous praise. 

As a specimen of these delineations, we 
give in this edition, the character of Dr. 
Blair, who has now paid the debt of nature, 
in the full confidence that this freedom will 
not be found inconsistent with the respect 
and veneration due to that excellent man, 
the last star in the literary constellation, by 
which the metropolis of Scotland was, in the 
earlier part of the present reign, so beauti- 
fully illuminated. 

" It is not easy forming an exact judgment 
of any one ; but, in my opinion, Dr. Blair is 
merely an astonishing proof of what indus- 
try and application can do. Natural parts 
like his are frequently to be met with ; his 
vanity is proverbially known among his ac- 
quaintance ; but he is justly at the head of 
what may be called fine writing ; and a cri- 
tic of the first, the very first rank in prose ; 
even in poetry, a bard of Nature's making 
can only take the pas of him. He has a 
heart, not of the very finest water, but far 
from being an ordinary one. In short, ho is 
truly a worthy, and most respectable cha- 
racter." 



By the new edition of his poems, Burns 
acquired a sum of money that enabled 1^"' 
not only to partake of the pleasures ol Edin- 
burgh, but to gratify a desir«> he had long 
entertained, of visiting t-'^ose parts of his 
native country, most attractive by their 
beauty or their ^^mdeurj a desire which 
the return of rammer naturally revived. — 
The scenery on the banks of the Tweed, 
and of j*s tributary streams, strongly inte- 
rested his fancy ; and accordingly he left 
Edinburgh on the 6th of May, 1787, on a 
tour through a country so much celebrated 
in the rural songs of Scotland. He travel- 
led on horseback, and was accompanied, dur- 
ing some part of his journey, by Mr. Ainslie, 
now writer to the signet, a gentleman who 
enjoyed much of his friendship ahd of his 
confidence. Of this tour a journal remains, 
which, however, contains only occasional re- 
marks on the scenery, and which is chiefly 
occupied with an account of the author's dif- 
ferent stages, and with his observations on 
the various characters to whom he was in- 



troduced. In the course of this tour he vi- 
sited Mr. Ainslie of Berry well, the father of 
his companion ; Mr. Brydone, the celebrated 
traveller, to whom he carried a letter of in- 
troduction from Mr. Mackenzie ; the Rev. 
Dr. Somerville of Jedburgh, the historian ; 
Mr. and Mrs. Scott of Wauchope ; Dr. El- 
hot, a physician, retired to a romantic spot 
on the banks of the Roole ; Sir Alexander 
Don ; Sir James Hall, of Dunglass ; and a 
great variety of other respectable characters. 
Kvcry where the fame of the poet had spread 
before him, and every where he received the 
most hospitable and flattering attentions. At 
Jedburgh he continued several days, and was 
honoured by the magistrates with the free- 
dom of their borough. The following may 
serve as a specimen of this tour, which the 
perpetual reference to living characters pre- 
vents our giving at large. 

" Saturday, May Qtth. — Left Edinburgh — 
Lammer-muir hills, miserably dreary in ge- 
neral, but at times very picturesque. 

" Lanson-edge, a glorious view of the 
Merse. Reach Berry well * * * The fa- 
mily meeting with my compagnon de voy- 
age, very charming; particularly the sister. 

" Sunday. — Went to church at Dunse. — 
Heard Dr. Bowraaker. ♦ * * 

" Monday. — Coldstream — glorious river 
Tweed — clear and majestic — fine bridge — 
dine at Coldstream with Mr. Ainslie and Mr. 
Foreman. Beat Mr. Foreman in a dispute 
about Voltaire. Drink tea at Lenel-House 
with Mr. and Mrs. Brydone. * ♦ * Re- 
ception extremely flattering. Sleep at Cold- 
stream. 

" Tuesday. — ^Breakfast at Kelso — charm- 
ins- situation of the town — fine bridge over 
the Tweed. Enchanting views and pros- 
pects on both sides of the river, especially 
on the Scotch side. ^ * * Visit Roxburgh 
Palace — fine situation of it. Ruins of Rox- 
burgh Castle — a holly bush growing where 
James II was accidentally killed by the burst- 
ing of a cannon. A small old religious ruin, 
and a fine old garden planted by the reli- 
gious, rooted out and destroyed by a Hotten- 
tot, a maitre d'hotel of the Duke's — climate 
and soil of Berwickshire, and even Rox- 
burghshire, superior to Ayrshire — bad roads 
— turnip and sheep husbandry, their great 
improvements. * * * Low markets, 
consequently low lands — magnificence of far- 
mers and farm-houses. Come up the Tiviot, 
and up the Jed to Jedburgh to lie, and so 
\tish myself good-night, 

" Wednesday. — Breakfast with Mr. Fair. 
* * * Charming romantic situation of 
Jedburgh, with gardens and orchards, inter- 
mingled among the houses and the ruins of 



^8 



THE LIFE OF BURIN {«. 



a once magmticent cathedral. All the towns 
here have the appearance of old rude gran- 
deur, but extremely idle. — Jed, a fine roman- 
tic little river. Dined with Capt. Ruther- 
ford, * * * return to Jedburgh. Walk 
up the Jed with some ladies to be shown Love 
lane, and Blackburn, two fairy scenes. In- 
troduced to Mr. Potts, writer, and to Mr. 
Sommerville, the clergyman of the parish, a 
man, and a gentleman, but sadly addicted to 
punning. 

* * ^ >f ♦ 

'' Jedburgh, Saturday. — Was presented 
by the Magistrates with the freedom of the 
town. 

" Took farewell of Jedburgh with some 
melancholy sensations. 

*' Monday, May I4th, Kelso. — Dine with 
the farmer's club— all gentlemen talking of 
high matters — each of them keeps a hunter 
from 30Z. to 50Z. value, and attends the fox- 
hunting club in the country. Go out with 
Mr. Kerr, one of the club, and a friend of 
Mr. Ainshe's, to sleep. In his mind and 
manners, Mr. Kerr is astonishingly like my 
dear old friend Robert Muir— every thing 
in his house elegant. He offers to accom- 
pany me in my English tour. _ 

" Tuesday. — Dine with Sir Alexander 
Don: a very wet day. * * * Sleep at 
Mr. Kerr's again, and set out next day for 
Mellross — visit Dryburgh, a fine old ruined 
abbey, by the way. Cross the Leader, and 
come up the Tweed to Melross. Dine there, 
and visit that far-famed glorious ruin — come 
to Selkirk up the banks of Ettrick. The 
whole country hereabouts, both on Tweed 
and Ettrick, remarkably stony." 

■n -a * ^ '^ 

Having spent three weeks in exploring 
this interesting scenery, Burns crossed over 
into Northumberland. Mr. Ker, and Mr. 
Hood, two gentlemen with whom he had be- 
come acquainted in the course of his tour, 
accompanied him. He visited Alnwick cas- 
tle, the princely seat of the Duke of North- 
umberland; the hermitage and old castle 
of Warksworth; Morpeth, and Newcastle. 
In this last town he spent two days, and then 
proceeded to the south-west by Hexham and 
Wardrue, to Carlisle. — After spending a. day 
at Carlisle with his friend Mr. Mitchell, he 
returned into Scotland, and at Annan his 
journal terminates abruptly. 

Of the various persons with whom he be- 
came acquainted in the course of this jour- 
ney, he has, in general, given some account ; 
and almost always a favourable one. That 
on the banks of the Tweed and of the Tiviot, 
our bard should find nymphs that were beau- 
tiful, is wh-at might be confidently presumed. 



i Two of these arc particularly described in 
j his journal. But it does not appear that the 
scenery, or its inhabitants, produced any ef- 
j fort of his muse, as was to have been wished 
I and expected. From Annan, Burns proceed- 
j ed to Dumfries, and thence through Sanqu- 
j har, to Mossgiel, near Mauchline, in Ayr- 
shire, where he arrived about the 8th of 
Juno, 1787, after a long absence of six busy 
! and eventful months. It will easily be con- 
j ceived with what pleasure and pride he was 
! received by his motiier, his brothers, andsis- 
l.ters. He had left them poor, and compara- 
j tively friendless: he returned to them high 
in public estimation, and easy in his circum- 
stances. He returned to them unchanged 
in his ardent affections, and ready to share 
with them to the uttermost farthing, the pit- 
tance that fortune had bestowed. 

Having remained with them a few days, 
he proceeded again to Edinburgh, and imme- 
diately set out on a journey to the High- 
lands. Of this tour no particulars have been 
found among his manuscripts. A letter to 
his friend Mr. Ainslie, dated jJrrachas, near 
Crochairbas, by Loclileary, June 28, 1787, 
commences as follows : 

" I write you this on my tour through a 
country where savage streams tumble over 
savage mountains, thinly overspread with 
savage flocks, which starvingly support as 
savage inhabitants. My last stage was In- 
verary — to-morrow night's fftage, Dumbar- 
ton. I ought sooner to have answered your 
kind letter, but you know I am a man of 
many sins." * 

Part of a letter from our bard to a friend,, 
giving some account of his journey, has been 
communicated to the Editor since the publi- 
cation of the last edition. The reader will 
be amused with the following extract : 

" Oil our return, at a Highland gentle- 
man's hospiuble mansion, we fell in with a 
merry party, a..H danced till the ladies left 
us, at three in the «norning. Our dancing 
was none of the Freno. or Enghsh insipid 
formal movements ; the iu-^ies sung Scotch 
songs like angels, at intervals, then we flew 
at Bab at the Broicser, Tullockgorum Loch 
Erroch side* &c. like midges sporting in the 
motlie sun, or craws prognosticating a .storm 
on a hairst day. — When the dear lasses left 
us, we ranged round the bowl till the good 
fellow hour of six ; except a few minutes 
that we went out to pay our devotions to the 
glorious lamp of day peering over the top of 
Benlomond. We all kneeled ; our worthy 
landlord's son held the bowl ; each man a 
full glass in his hand ; and I, as priest, re- 
peated some rhyming nonsense, like Tho- 
mas-a-Rhymer's prophecies I suppose. After 

* Scotch tune?. 



THE LIFE OF BURNJ^. 



39 



c small refreshment of the gifts of Somnus, 
we proceeded to spend the day on Lochlo- 
raond, and reached Dumbarton in the even- 
ing. We dined at another good fellow's 
house, and consequently pushed the bottle ; 
when we went out to mount our horses we 
found ourselves * No vera fou but gaylie 
yet.' My two friends and I rode soberly 
down the Loch-side, till by came a High- 
landman at the gallop, on a tolerably good 
horse, but which had never known the orna- 
ments of iron or leather. We scorned to be 
out-galloped by a Highlandman, so off we 
started, whip and spur. My companions, 
though seemingly gayly mounted, fell sadly 
astern ; but my old mare, Jenny Geddes, one 
of the Rosinante family, she strained past the 
Highlandman in spite of ail his efforts, with 
the hair halter ; just as I was passing him, 
Donald wheeled his horse, as if to cross be- 
fore me to mar my progress, when down 
came his horse, and threw his rider's breek- 
lees a — e in a dipt hedge ; and down came 
Jenny Geddes over all, and my hardship be- 
tween her and the Highlandman's horse. 
Jenny Geddes trode over me with such cau- 
tious reverence, that matters were not so 
bad as might well have been expected ; so I 
came off with a few cuts and bruises, and a 
thorough resolution to be a pattern of so- 
briety fox the future. 

'' 1 have yet fixed on nothing with respect 
to the serious business of life. I am, just as 
usual, a rhyming, mason-making, raking, 
aimless, idle fellow. However I shall some- 
where have a farm soon. I was going to say, 
a wife too; but that must never be my bles- 
sed lot. I am but a younger son of the house 
of Parnassus, and like other younger sons of 
great families, I may intrigue, if I choose to 
run all risks, but must not marry. 

" I am afraid I have almost ruined one 
source, the principal one indeed, of my for- 
mer happiness ; that eternal propensity I 
always had to fall in love. My heart no 
more glows with feverish rapture. I have 
no paradisical evening interviews stolen from 
the restless cares and prying inhabitants of 
this weary world. I have only * * * 
This last is one of your distant acquaintan- 
ces, has a fine figure, and elegant manners ; 
and in the train of some great folks whom 
you know, has seen the politest quarters in 
Europe. I do like her a good deal ; but what 
piques me is her conduct at the commence- 
ment of our acquaintance. I frequently vi- 
sited her when I was in , and after 

passing regularly the intermediate degrees 
between the distant formal bow and the fami- 
liar grasp round the waist, 1 ventured in my 
careless way to talk of friendship in, rather 
ambiguous terms ; and after her return to 

, I wrote to her in the same style. — 

Miss, construing ray words farther I suppose 
than even I intended,, flew off in a tangent of 



female dignity and reserve, like a mountain 
lark in an April morning : and wrote me an 
answer which measured me out very com- 
pletely what an immense way I had to tra- 
vel before I could reach the climax of her 
favour. But 1 am an old hawk at the sport ; 
and wrote her such a cool, deliberate, pru- 
dent reply, as brought my bird from her aerial 
towerings, pop down at my foot, like corpo- 
poral Trim's hat. 

*' As for the rest of my acts, and my wars, 
and all my wise sayings, and why my mare 
was called Jenny Geddes ; they shall be re- 
corded in a few weeks hence, at Linlithgow, 
in the chronicles of your memory, by 

" Robert Burns." 



From this journey Burns returned to his 
friends in Ayrshire, with whom he spent the 
month of July, renewing his friendships and 
extending his acquaintance throughout the 
country, where he was now very generally 
known and admired. In August he again 
visited Edinburgh, whence he undertook 
another journey towards the middle of this 
month, in company with Mr. M. Adair, now 
Dr. Adair, of Harrowgate, of which this gen- 
tleman has favonrfid us with the following 
account : 

" Burns and I left Edinburgh together in 
August, 1787. We rode by Linlithgow and 
Carron, to Stirling. We visited the iron- 
works at Carron, with which the poet was 
forcibly struck. The resemblance between 
that place, and its inhabitants, to the cave of 
Cyclops, which must have occurred to every 
classical reader, presented itself to Burns. 
At Stirling the prospects from the castle 
strongly interested him ; in a former visit to 
which, his national feelings had been power- 
fully excited by the ruinous and roofless state 
of the hall in which the Scottish parliaments 
had been held. His indignation had vented 
itself in some imprudent, but not unpoetical 
lines, which had given much offence, and 
which he took this opportunity of erasing, by 
breaking the pane of the window at the inn 
on whicn they were written. 

" At Stirling we met with a company of 
travellers from Edinburgh, among whom was 
a character in many respects congenial with 
that of Burns. This was Nicol, one of the 
teachers of the H.gh Grammar School at 
Edinburgh — the same wit and power of con- 
versation ; the same fondness for convivial 
society, and thoughtlessness of to-morrow, 
characterized both. Jacobitical principles in 
politics were common to both of them ; and 
these have been suspected, since the revolu- 
tion of France, to have given place in each, 
to opinions apparently opposite. I regret 



40 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



that I have preserved no memorabilia of 
their conversation, either on this or on other 
occasions, when I happened to meet them 
together. Many songs were sung, which I 
mention for the sake of observing, that when 
Burns was called on in his turn, he was ac- 
customed, instead of singing, to recite one 
or other of his own shorter poems, with a 
tone and emphasis, which, though not cor- 
rect or harmonious, were impressive and pa- 
thetic. This he did on the present occa- 
sion. 

" From StirUng we went next morning 
through the romantic and fertile vale of De- 
von to Harvieston in Clackmannanshire, 
then inhabited by Mrs. Hamilton, with the 
younger part of whose family Burns had 
been previously acquainted. He introduced 
me to the family, and there was formed my 
first acquaintance with Mrs. Hamilton's eld- 
est daughter, to whom I have been married 
for nine years. Thus was I indebted to 
Burns for a connection from which I have 
derived, and expect further to derive much 
happiness. 

" During a residence of about ten days at 
Harvieston, we made excursions to visit va- 
rious parts of the surrounding scenery, in- 
ferior to none in Scotland, in beauty, subli- 
mity, and romantic interest ; particularly 
Castle Campbell, the ancient seat of the fa- 
mily of Argyle ; and the famous Cataract of 
the Devon, called the Caldron Linn; and the 
Rumbling Bridge, a. single broad arch thrown 
by the Devil, if tradition is to be believed, 
across the river, at about the height of a 
hundred feet above its bed. 1 am surprised 
that none of these scenes should have called 
forth an exertion of Burns's muse. But 1 
doubt if he had much taste for the pictu- 
resque. I well remember, that the ladies at 
Harvieston, who accompanied us on this 
jaunt, expressed their disappointment at his 
not expressing in more glowing and fervid 
language, his impressions of the Caldron 
Linn scene, certainly highly sublime, and 
somewhat horrible. 

" A visit to Mrs. Bruce, of Clackmannan, 
a lady above ninety, the lineal descendant of 
that race which gave the Scottish throne its 
brightest ornament, interested his feelings 
more powerfully . This venerable dame, with 
characteristical dignity, informed me on my 
observing that I believed she was descended 
from the family of Robert Bruce, that Robert 
Bruce was sprung from her family. Though 
almost deprived of speech by a paralytic af- 
fection, she preserved her hospitality and 
urbanity. She was in possession of the hero's 
helmet and two-handed sword, with which 
she conferred on Burns and myself the ho- 
nour of knighthood, remarking, that she had 
a better right to confer that title than some 
people. " * Yoii will of course conclude 



that the old lady's political tenets were as 
Jacobitical as the poet's, a conformity which 
contributed not a little to the cordiality of 
our reception and entertainment — She gave 
us as her first toast afier dinner, Jltoa^ UncoSf 
or. Away with the Strangers. — Who these 
strangers were, you will readily understand. 
Mrs. A. corrects me by saying it should be 
Hooi, ox.Hooi uncos, a sound used by shep- 
herds to direct their dogs to drive away the 
sheep. 

" We returned to Edinburgh by Kinross 
(on the shore of Lochleven) and Queen's* 
ferry. I am inclined to think Burns knew 
nothing of poor Michael Bruce, who was 
then alive at Kinross, or had died there a 
short while befor^. A meeting between the 
bards, or a visit to the deserted cottage and 
early grave of poor Bruce, would have been 
highly interesting.* 

"At Dumfermline we visited the ruined 
abbey and the abbey church, now consecrated 
to Pre.sbyterian worship. Here I mounted the 
cutty stool, or stool of repentance, assuming 
the character of a penitent for fornication ; 
while Burns from the pulpit addressed to me 
a ludicrous reproof and exhortation, parodied 
from that which had been delivered to him- 
self in Ayrshire, where he had, as he assured 
me, once been one of seven who mounted 
the seat of shame together. 

" In the church-yard two broad flag-stones 
marked the grave of Robert Bruce, for whose 
memory Burns had more than common vene- 
ration.* He knelt and kissed the stone with 
sacred fervour, and heartily (suus ut mos 
erat) execrated the worse than Gothic ne- 
glect of the first of Scottish heroes."! 



The surprise expressed by Dr. Adair, in his 
excellent letter, that the romantic scenery 
of the Devon should have failed to call forth 
any exertion of the poet's muse, is not in its 
nature singular ; and the disappointment 
felt at his not expressing in more glowing 
language his emotions on the sight of the fa- 
mous cataract of that river, is similar to what 
was felt by the friends of Burns on other oc- 
casions of the same nature. Yet the infer- 
ence that Dr. Adair seems inclined to draw 
from it, that he had little taste for the pic- 
turesque, might be questioned, even if it 
stood uncontroverted by other evidence. The 
muse of Burns was in a high degree capri- 
cious ; she came uncalled, and often refused 
to attend at his bidding. Of all the numer- 
ous subjects suggested to him by his friend.s 

* Bruce died some years before. E. 
t Extracted from a letter of Dr. Adair to the 
Editor. 



THE LIFE OP BURNS. 



41 



and correspondents, there is scarcely one 
that he adopted. The very expectation that j 
a particular occasion would excite the ener- 
gies of fancy, if communicated to Burns, i 
seemed in him, as in other poets, destructive j 
of the effect expected. Hence perhaps may 
be explained, why the banks of the Devon 
and of the Tweed form no part of the subjects 
of his song. 

A similar train of reasoning may perhaps 
explain the want of emotion with which he 
viewed the Caldron Linn. Certainly there 
are no affections, of the mind more deadened 
by the influence of previous expetitation, 
than those arising from the sight of natural 
objects, and more especially of objects of 
grandeur. Minute descriptions of scenes, of 
a sublime nature, should never be given to 
those who are about to view them, particu- 
larly if they are persons of great strength 
and sensibility of imagination. Language 
seldom or never conveys an adequate idea of 
such objects, but in the mind of a great poet 
it may excite a picture that far transcends 
them. The imagination of Burns might form 
a cataract, in comparison with which the 
Caldron Linn should seem the purling of a 
rill, and even the mighty falls of Niagara, an 
humble cascade.* 

Whether these suggestions may assist in 
explaining our Bard's deficiency of impres- 
sion on the occasion referred to, or whether 
it ought rather to be imputed to some pre- 
occupation, or indisposition of mind, we pre- 
sume not to decide ; but that he was in ge- 
neral feelingly alive to the beautiful or sub- 
lime in scenery, may be supported by irre- 
sistible evidence. It is true this pleasure 
was greatly heightened in his mind, as might 
be expected, when combined with moral 
emotions of a kind with which it happily 
unites. That under this association Burns 
contemplated the scenery of the Devon with 
the eye of a genuine poet, some lines which 



* This reasoning might be extended, with some 
modification, to objects of sight of every kind. 
To have formed before-hand a distinct picture in 
the mind, of any interesting person or thing, ge- 
nerally lessens the pleasure of the first meeting 
with them. Though this picture be not superior, 
or even equal to the reality, still it can never be 
expected to be an exact resemblance ; and the 
disappointment felt at finding the object some- 
thing different from what was expected, inter- 
rupts and diminishes the emotions that would 
otherwise be produced. In such cases the second 
or third interview gives more pleasure than the 
first. — See the Elements of the Philosophy of the 
Human Mind^ by Mr. Stewart, p. 484. Such 
publications as The Guide to the Lakes, where 
every scene is described in the most minute man- 
ner, and sometimes with considerable exagge- 
ration of language, are in this point of view ob- 
jectionable. 



ho wrote at this very period, may bear wit- 
ness.^ 

The different journeys already mentioned 
did not satisfy the curiosity of Burns. Abou* 
the beginning of September, he again set 
out from Edinburgh or a more extended 
four to the Highlands, in company with Mr. 
Nicol, with whom he had now contracted a 
particular intimacy, which lasted during the 
remainder of his life. Mr. Nicol was of 
Dumfriesshire, of a descent equally humble 
with our poet. Like him he rose by the 
strength of his talents, and fell by the 
strength of his passions. He died in the 
summer of 1797. Having received the ele- 
ments of a classical instruction at his parish- 
school, Mr. Nicol made a very rapid and sin- 
gular proficiency ; and by early undertaking 
the office of an instructor himself, he acquired 
the means of entering himself at the Univer- 
sity of Edinburgh. There he was first a 
student of theology, then a student of medi- 
cine, and was afterwards employed in the 
assistance and instruction of graduates in 
medicine, in those parts of their exercises in 
which the Latin language is employed. In 
this situation he was the contemporary and 
rival of the celebrated Dr. Brown., whom he 
resembled in the particulars of his history, ^s 
well as in the leading features of his charac- 
ter The office of assistant-teacher in the 
High-school being vacant, it was, as usual, 
filled up by competition ; and in the face of 
some prejudices, and, perhaps, of some well- 
founded objections, Mr. Nicol, by superior 
learning, carried it from all the other candi- 
dates. This office he filled at the period of 
which we speak. 

It is to be lamented that an acquaintance 
with the writers of Greece and Rome does 
not always supply an original want of taste 
and correctness in manners and conduct ; 
and where it fails of this effect, it sometimes 
inflames the native pride of temper, which 
treats with disdain those delicacies in which 
it has not learned to excel. It was thus with 
the fellow-traveller of Burns. Formed by 
nature in a model of great strength, neither 
his person nor his manners had any tincture 
of taste or elegance ; and his coarseness was 
not compensated by that romantic sensibi- 
lity, and those towering flights of imagina- 
tion, which distinguished the conversation of 
Burns, in the blaze of whose genius all the 
deficiencies of his manners were absorbed 
and disappeared, 

Mr. Nicol and our poet travelled in a post- 
chaise, which they engaged for the journey, 
and passing through the heart of the High- 

* See the song beginning, 
« How pleasant the banks of the clear wineling 
Devon." Poems, p. 78. 



42 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



lands, stretched northwards, about ten miles 
beyond Inverness. There they bent their 
course eastward, across the island, and re- 
turned by the shore of the German sea to 
Edinburgh. In the course of this tour, some 
particulars of which will be found in a letter 
of our bard, No. XXX. they visited a numbe'r . 
of remarkable scenes, and the imagination of j 
Burns was constantly excited by the wild | 
and sublime scenery through which he j 
passed. Of this several proofs may be found 
in the poems formerly printed.* Of the his- j 
tory of one of these poems, The Humble \ 
Petition of Bruar Water, and of the bard's j 
visit to Athole House, some particulars will | 
be found in No. XXIX ; and by the favour of j 
Mr. Walker of Perth, then residing in the j 
family of the Duke of Athole, we are en- ! 
abled to give the following additional ac- 
count : 

" On reaching Blair, he sent me notice of 
liis arrival, (as I had been previously ac- 
quainted with him,) and I hastened to meet 
him at the inn. The Duke to whom he 
brought a letter of introduction, was from 
home 5 but the Dutchess, being informed of 
his arrival, gave him an invitation to sup 
and sleep at Athole House. He accepted 
the invitation ; but as the hour of supper was 
at some distance, begged I would in the in- 
terval bb his guide through the grounds. It 
was already growing t ark; yet the softened 
though faint and uncertain view of their 
beauties, which the moonlight afforded us, 
seemed exactly suited to the state of his 
feelings at the time. I had often, like others, 
experienced the pleasures which arise from 
the sublime or elegant landscape, but I never 
saw those feelings so intense as in Burns. 
When we reached a rustic hut on the river 
Tilt, where it is overhung by a woody pre- 
cipice, from which there is a noble water- 
fall, he threw himself on the heathy seat, 
and gave himself up to a tender, abstracted, 
and voluptuous enthusiasm of imagination. 
I cannot help thinking it might have been 
here that he conceived the idea of the fol- 
lowing lines, which he afterwards introduced 
into his poem on Bruar Water, when only 
fancying such a combination of objects as 
were now present to his eye. 

Or, by the reaper's nightly beam, 
Mild, chequering through the trees, 

Rave to my darkly-dashing stream, 
Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. 

" It was with much difficulty I prevailed 



* See "Lines on scaring some water- fowl in 
Loch-Turit, a wild scene among the hills of Och- 
tertyre." " Lines written with a Pencil over the 
Chimney-piece, in the Inn at Kenmore, Tay- 
mouth." " Lines written with a Pencil standing 
by the fall of Fyers, near Lochness." 



on him to quit this spot, and to be introduced 
in proper time to supper. 

"My curiosity was great to see how he 
would conduct himself in company so differ- 
ent from what he had been accustomed to.* 
His manner was unembarrassed, plain and 
firm. He appeared to have complete reli- 
ance on his own native good sense for direct- 
ing his behaviour. He seemed at once to 
perceive and to appreciate what was due to 
the company and to himself, and never to 
forget a proper respect for the separate 
species of dignity belonging to each. He 
did not arrogate conversation, but, when led 
into it, he spoke with ease, propriety, and 
manliness. He tried to exert his abilities, 
because he knew it was ability alone gave 
him a title to be there. The Duke's fine 
young family attracted much of his admira- 
tion ; he drank their healths as honest men 
and bonny lasses, an idea which was much 
applauded by the company, and with which 
he very felicitously closed his poem.f 

'' Next day I took a ride with him through 
some of the most romantic parts of that 
neighbourhood, and was highly gratified by 
his conversation. As a specimen of his hap- 
piness of conception and strength of expres- 
sion, 1 will mention a remark which he made 
on his fellow-traveller, who was walking at 
the time a few paces before us. He was a 
man of a robust but clumsy person ; and 
while Burns was expressing to me the value 
he entertained for him on account of his vi- 
gorous talents, although they were clouded 
at times by coarseness of manners ; * in 
short,' he added, ' his mind is like his body, 
he has a confounded strong, inkneed sort of 
a soul.' 

" Much attention was paid to Burns both 
before and after the Dyke's return, of which 
he was perfectly sensible, without being vain ; 
and at his departure I recommended to him, 
as the most appropriate return he could 
make, to write some descriptive verses on 
any of the scenes with which he had been so 
much delighted. Afler leaving Blair, he by 
the Duke's advice, visited the Falls of Bruar, 
and in a few days I received a letter from 
Inverness, with the verses enclosed. "^ 

It appears that the impression made by 
our poet on the noble family of Athole, was 
in a high degree favourable ; it is certain he 
was charmed with the reception he received 



* In the preceding winter, Burns had been it\' 
company of the highest rank in Edinburgh; biil'' 
this description of his manners is perfectly appliJ 
cable to his first appearance in such society. 

t See The Humble Petition of Bruan Water. 

X Extract of a letter from Mr. Walker to Mt^ 
, Cunningham. See Letter, No. XXIX. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



4S 



from tliem, and he often mentioned the two 
days he spent at Athole House as amongst 
the happiest of his life. He was warmly in- 
vited to prolong his stay, but sacrificed his 
inclinations to his engagement with Mr. Ni- 
col ; which is the more to be regretted, as 
he would otherwise have been introduced to 
Mr. Dundas, (then daily expected on a visit 
to the Duke,) a circumstance which might 
have had a favourable influence on Burns's 
future fortunes. At Athole House he met, 
for the first time, Mr. Graham of Fintry^ to 
whom he was afterwards indebted for his of- 
fice in the Excise. 

The letters and poems which he address- 
ed to Mr. Graham, bear testimony of his 
sensibility, and justify the supposition, that 
he would not have been deficient in gratitude 
had he been elevated to a situation better 
suited to his disposition and to his talents."^ 

A few days after leaving Blair of Athole, 
our poet and his fellow-traveller arrived at 
Fochabers. In the course of the preceding 
winter, Burns had been introduced to the 
Dutchess of Gordon at Edinburgh, and pre- 
suming on this acquaintance, he proceeded 
to Gordon-Castle, leaving Mr. Nicol at the 
inn in the village. At the castle our poet 
was received with the utmost hospitality and 
kindness, and the family being about to sit 
down to dinner, he was invited to take his 
place at table as a matter of course. This 
invitation he accepted, and after drinking a 
few glasses of wine, he rose up, and proposed 
to withdraw. On being pressed to stay, he 
mentioned, for the first time, his engagement 
with his fellow-traveller : and his noble host 
offering to send a servant to conduct Mr. 
Nicol to the castle, Burns insisted on under- 
taking that office himself He was, however, 
accompanied by a gentleman, a particular 
acquaintance of the Duke, by whom the in- 
vitation was delivered in all the forms of po- 
liteness. The invitation came too late ; the 
pride of Nicol was inflamed into a high de- 
gree of passion, by the neglect which he had 
already suffered. He had ordered the horses 
to be put to the carriage, being determined 
to proceed on his journey alone ; and they 
found him parading the streets of Fochabers, 
before the door of the inn, venting his anger 
on the postillion, for the slowness with which 
he obeyed his commands. As no explana- 
tion nor entreaty could change the purpose 
of his fellow-traveller, our poet was reduced 
to the necessity of separating from him en- 
tirely, or of instantly proceeding with him 
on their journey He chose the last of these 
alternatives; and seating himself beside Ni- 
col in the post-chaise with mortification and 
regret, he turned his back on Gordon Castle, 

* See the first Epistle to Mr. Graham^ solicit- 
ing an employment in the Excise, Letter No. LVI. 
and his second Epistle, Poems, p. 65. 

29 



where he had promised himself some happy 
days. Sensible, however, of the great kind- 
ness of the noble family, he made the best 
return in his power, by the poem beginning, 

*' Streams that glide in orient plains."* 

Burns remained at Edinburgh during the 
greater part of the winter, 1787-8, and again 
entered into the society and dissipation of 
that metropolis. It appears that on the 31st 
day of December, he attended a meeting to 
celebrate the birthday of the lineal descend- 
ant of the Scottish race of kings, the late 
unfortunate Prince Charles Edward. What- 
ever might have been the wish or purpose of 
the original institutors of this annual meet- 
ing, there is no reason to suppose that the 
gentlemen of whom it was at this time com- 
posed, were not perfectly loyal to the King 
on the throne. It is not to be conceived that 
they entertained any hope of, any wish for, 
the restoration of the House of Stuart ; but, 
over their sparkling wine, they indulged the 
generous feelings which the recollection of 
fallen greatnes.'? is calculated to inspire ; and 
commemorated the heroic valour which 
strove to sustain it in vain — valour worthy 
of a nobler cause, and a happier fortune. On 
this occasion our bard took upon himself the 
office of poet-laureate, and produced an ode, 
which though deficient in the complicated 
rhythm and polished versification that such 
compositions require, might on a fair com- 
petition, where energy of feelings and of ex- 
pression were alone in question, have won 
the butt of Malmsey from the real laureate 
of that day. 

The following extracts may serve as a 
specimen : 



False flatterer, Hope, away ! 
Nor think to lure us as in days of yore: 

We solemnize this sorrowing natal day, 
To prove our loyal truth — we can no more : 

And, owning Heaven's mysterious sway, 
Submissive, low, adore. 

Ye honoured, mighty dead ! 
Who nobly perished in the glorious cause, 
Your King, your country, and her laws ! 

From great Dundee, who smiling victory led, 
And fell a martyr in her arms, 
(What breast of northern ice but xvarms?) 
To bold Balmerino's undying name, 
Whose soul of fire, lighted at Heaven's high 
flame. 
Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes 
claim. f 

# This information is extracted from a letter 
of Dr. Couper of Fochabers, to the Editor^ 

f In the first part of this ode ther<( it t omt ^au-> 
tiful imagery, which the pott afterward! inter- 



44 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



Nor unrevenged your tate shall be, 

It only lags the fatal hour ; 
Your blood shall with incessant cry 

Awake at last the unsparing power. 
As from the cliiF, with thundering course, 

The snowy ruin smokes along, 
With doubling speed and gathering force, 
Till deep it crashing whelms the cottage in the 

vale ! 
So Vengeance * * * 

In relating the incidents of our poet[s life 
in Edinburgh, we ought to have, mentioned 
the sentiments of respect and sympathy with 
which he traced out the grave of his prede- 
cessor Ferguson, over whose ashes in the 
Canongate church-yard, he obtained leave 
to erect an humble monument, which will be 
viewed by reflecting minds with no common 
interest, and which will awake in the bosom 
of kindred genius, many a high emotion.* 
Neither should we pass over the continued 
friendship he experienced from a poet then 
living, the amiable and accomplished Black- 
lock. — To his encouraging advice it was 
owing (as has already appeared) that Burns 
instead of emigrating to the West. Indies, 
repaired to Edinburgh. He received him 
there with all the ardour of affectionate ad- 
miration ; he eagerly introduced him to the 
respectable circle of his friends ; he consult- 
ed his interest ; he blazoned his fame ; he 
lavished upon him all the kindness of a ge- 
nerous and feeling heart, into which nothing 
selfish or envious ever found admittance. 
Among the friends to whom he introduced 
Burns was Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, to 
whom our poet paid a visit in the Autumn of 
1787, at his delightful retirement in the 
neighbourhood of Stirling, and on the banks 
©f tne Teith. Of this visit we have the fol- 
lowing particulars : 

" I have been in the company of many men 
of genius," says Mr. Ramsay, " some of them 
poets ; but never witnessed such flashes of 
intellectual brightness as from him, the im- 

?ulse of the moment, sparks of celestial fire ! 
never was more delighted, therefore, than 
with his company for two days, tete-a-tete. 
In a mixed company I should have made 
little of him ; for, in the gamester's phrase, 
he did not always know when to play off and 
when to play on, * * * I not only proposed 
to him the writing of a play similar to the 
Gentle Shepherd, qualem decet esse sororem, 



wove in a happier manner in the Chevalier'' s 
Lament. (See Letter, No. LXV.) But if there 
were no other reasons for omitting to print the 
entire poem, the want of originality would be suf- 
ficient. A considerable part of it is a kind of 
rant, for which indeed precedent may be cited in 
various other birth-day odes, but with which it is 
impossible to go along. 

* See Letters No. XIX. and XX. where the 
Epitaph will be found, &c. 



but Scottish Gcorgics, a subject whicli Thnhi' 
son has by no means exhausted in his Sea- 
sons. What beautiful landscapes of rural 
life and manners might not have been ex- 
pected from a percil so faithful and forcible 
as his, which could have exhibited scenes as 
familiar and interesting as those in the Gentle 
Shepherd^ which every one who knows our 
swains in their unadulterated state, instantly 
recognises as true to nature. But to have 
executed either of these plans, steadiness 
and abstraction from company were wanting, 
not talents. When I asked him whether the 
Edinburgh Literati had mended his poems 
by their criticisms, ' Sir,' said he, ' these 
gentlemen remind me of some spinsters in 
my country, who spin their thread so fine 
that it is neither fit for weft nor woof.' He 
said he had not changed a word except one 
to please Dr. Blair."* 

Having settled with his publisher, Mr. 
Creech, in February, 1788, Burns found 
himself master of nearly five hundred pounds, 
after discharging all his expenses. Two 
hundred pounds he immediately advanced to 
his brother Gilbert, who had taken upon him- 
self the support of their aged mother, and 
was struggling with many difliculties in the 
farm of Mossgiel. With the remainder of 
this sum, and some farther eventful profits 
from his poems, he determined on settling 
himself for life in the occupation of agricul- 
ture, and took from Mr. Miller, of Dalswin- 
ton, the farm of Ellisland, on the banks of the 
river Nith, six miles above Dumfries, on 
which he entered at Whitsunday, 1788. 
Having been previously recommended to 
the Board of Excise, his name had been put 
on the list of candidates for the humble of- 
fice of a ganger or exciseman ; and he im- 
mediately applied to acquiring the inform- 
ation necessary for filling that oflace, when 
the honourable Board might judge it proper 
to employ him. He expected to be called 
into service in the district in which his farm 
was situated, and vainly hoped to unite with 
success the labours of the farmer with the 
duties of the exciseman. 

When Burns had in this manner arranged 
his plans for futurity, his generous heart 
turned to the object of his most ardent at- 
tachment, and listening to no considerations 
but those of honour and affection, he joined 
with her in a public declaration of marriage, 
thus legalizing their union, and rendering it 
permanent for life. 



* Extract of a letter from Mr. Ramsay to the 
Editor. This incorrigibility of Burns extended, 
however, only to his poems printed before he ar- 
rived in Edinburgh; for in regard to his unpub- 
lished poems, he was amenable to criticism, of 
which many proofs might be given. See some- 
remarks on this subject, in the Appendix. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



45 



Before Burns was known in Edinburgh, a 
specimen of his poetry had recommended 
him to Mr. Miller of Dalsvvinton. Under- 
standing that he intended to resume the life 
of a farmer, Mr. Miller had invited him, in 
the spring of 1787, to view his estate in 
Nithsdale, offering him at the same time the 
choice of any of his farms out of lease, at such 
a rent as Burns and his friends might judge 
proper. It was not in the nature of Burns to 
take an undue advantage of the liberality of 
Mr. Miller. He proceeded in this business, 
however, with more than usual deliberation. 
Having made choice of the farm of EUisland, 
he employed two of his friends, skilled in the 
value of land, to examine it, and vviih their 
approbation offered a rent to Mr. Miller, 
which was immediately accepted. It was 
not convenient for Mrs. Burns to remove 
immediately from Ayrshire, and our poet 
therefore took up his residence alone at El- 
lisland, to prepare for the reception of his 
wife and children, who joined him towards 
the end of the year. 

The situation in which Burns now found 
liimself was calculated to awaken reflection. 
The different stops he had of late taken were 
in their nature highly important, and might 
be said to have, in some measure, fixed his 
destiny. He had become a husband and a 
father ; he had engaged in the management 
of a considerable farm, a difficult and labo- 
rious undertaking ; in his success the happi- 
ness of his familj' was involved ; it was time, 
therefore, to abandon the gayety and dissi- 
pation of which he had been too much en- 
amoured ; to ponder seriously on the past, 
and to form virtuous resolutions respecting 
the future. That such was actually the state 
of his mind, the following extract from his 
common-place book may bear witness : 

EUisland, Sunday, I4th June, 1788. 
" This is now the third day that I have 
been in this country. * Lord, what is man !' 
What a bustling little bundle of passions, ap- 
petites, ideas, and fancies ! and what a ca- 
pricious kind of existence he has here ! 
■^ * * There is indeed an elsewhere, where, 
as Thomson says, virtue sole survives. 

* Tell us ye dead 
Will none of you in pity disclose the secret 
What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be.' 

A little time 

Will make us wise as you are, and as close.' 

" I am such a coward in life, so tired of 
the service, that I would almost at anytime, 
with Milton's Adam, ' gladly lay me in my 
mother's lap, and be at peace.' 

" But a wife and children bind me to strug- 
gle with the stream, till some sudden squall 
shall overset the silly vessel ; or in the listless 



return of years, its own craziness reduce it to 
a wreck. Farewell now to those giddy fol- 
lies, those varnished vices, which, though 
half-sanctified by the bewitching levity of 
wit and humour, are at best but thriftless 
idling with the precious current of existence y 
nay, often poisoning the whole, that like the» 
plains of Jericho, the water is nought, and the 
ground barren, and nothing short of a super- 
naturally gifted Elisha can ever after heal 
the evils. 

'• Wedlock, the circumstance that buckles 
me hardest to care, if virtue and religion 
were to be any thing with me but names, 
was what in a few seasons I must have re- 
solved on ; in ray present situation it was ab- 
solutely necessary. Humanity, generosity, 
honest pride of character, justice to my own 
happiness for after life, so far as it could de- 
pend (which it surely will a great deal) on 
internal peace ; all these joined their warmest 
suffrages, their most p werful solicitations, 
with a rooted attachment, to urge the step I 
have taken. Nor have 1 any reason on her 
part to repent it. 1 can fancy how, but have 
never seen where, I could have made abetter 
choice. Come, then, let me act up to my 
favourite motto, that glorious passage ia 
Young — 

" On reason build resolve, 
That column of true majesty in man !" 

Under the impulse of these reflections. 
Burns immediately engaged in rebuilding 
the dwelling-house on his farm, which, in 
the state he found it, was inadequate to the 
accommodation of his family. On this occa- 
sion, he himself resumed at times the occu- 
pation of a labourer, and found neither his 
strength nor his skill impaired. Pleased with 
surveying the grounds he was about to cul- 
tivate, and with the rearing of a building 
that should give fJielter to his wife and chil- 
dren, and, as he fondly hoped, to his own 
gray ha.yrs, sentiments of independence 
buoyed up his mind, pictures of domestic 
content and peace rose on his imagination ; 
and a few days passed away, as he himself 
informs us, the most tranquil, if not the hap- 
piest, which he had ever experienced.* 

It is to be lamented that at this critical 
period of his life, our poet was without the 
society of his wife and children. A great 
change had taken place in his situation ; his 



* Animated sentiments of any kind, almost 
always gave rise in our poet to some production 
of his muse. His sentiments on this occasion 
were in part expressed by the vigorous and cha- 
racteristic, though not very delicate song, begin- 
ning* 

«' I hae a wife o' my am, 

I'll partake wi' nae-body." 



46 



THE LIFE OF BURINS. 



old habits were broken ; and the new circum- 
stances in which he was placed were calcu- 
lated to give a new direction to his thoughts 
and conduct.* But his application to the 
cares and labours of his farm was interrupted 
by several visits to his family in Ayrshire ; 
and as the distance was too great for a single 
day's journey, he generally spent a night at 
an inn on the road. On such occasions he 
sometimes fell into company, and forgot the 
resolutions he had formed. In a little while 
temptation assailed him nearer home. 

His fame naturally drew upon him the at- 
tention of his neighbours, and he soon formed 
a general acquaintance in the district in 
which he lived. The public voice had now 
pronounced on the subject of his talents ; the 
reception he had met with in Edinburgh had 
given him the currency which fashion be- 
stows, he had surmounted the prejudices 
arising from his humble birth, and he was 
received at the table of the gentlemen of 
Nithsdale with welcome, with kindness, and 
even with respect. Their social parties too 
oflen seduced him from his rustic labour and 
his rustic fare, overthrew the unsteady fabric 
of his resolutions, and inflamed those propen- 
sities which temperance might have weak- 
ened, and prudence ultimately suppressed.! 
Jt was not long, therefore, before Burns be- 
gan to view his farm with dislike and des- 
pondence, if not with disgust. 

Unfortunately he had for several years 
looked to an office in the Excise as a certain 
means of livelihood, should his other expec- 
tations fail. As has already been mentioned, 
he had been recommended to the Board of 
Excise, and had received the instructions 
necessary for such a situation. He now ap- 
plied to be employed ; and by the interest of 
Mr. Graham of Fintry, was appointed ex- 
ciseman, or, as it is vulgarly called, ganger, 
of the district in which he lived. His farm 
was after this, in a great measure abandoned 



* Mrs. Burns was about to be confined in child- 
bed, and the house at Ellisland was rebuilding. 

f The poem of The Whistle (Poem, p. 74) ce- 
lebrates a Bacchanalian contest among three 
gentlemen of Nithsdale, where Burns appears as 
umpire. Mr. Riddell died before our Bard, and 
some elegiac verses to his memory will be found 
entitled, Sonnet on the death of Robert Riddell. 
From him, and from all the members of his fa- 
mily, Burns received not kindness only, but 
friendship ; and the society he met in general at 
Friar's Carse was calculated to improve his 
habits as well as his manners. Mr. Fergusson of 
Craigdarroch, so well known for his eloquence 
and social talents, died soon after our poet. Sir 
Robert Laurie, the third person in the drama, 
survives, and has since been engaged in a contest 
of a bloodier nature. Long may he live to fight 
the battles of his countrv J (1 799.) 



to servants, while he betook himself to the 
duties of his new appointment. 

He might, indeed, still be seen in the 
spring, directing his plough, a labour in 
which he excelled ; or with a white sheet, 
containing his seed-corn, slung across his 
shoulders, striding with measured steps 
along his turned up furrows, and scattering 
the grain in the earth. But his farm no 
longer occupied the principal part of his 
care or his thoughts. It was not at Ellisland 
that he was now in general to be found. 
Mounted on horseback, this highmindcd 
poet was pursuing the defaulters of the reve- 
nue, among the hills and vales of Nithsdale, 
his roving eye wandering over the charms 
of nature, and muttering his way ward fancies 
as he moved along. 

" I had an adventure with him in the year 
1790," says Mr. Ramsay, of Ochtertyre, in a 
letter to the editor, " when passing through 
Dumfriesshire, on a tour to the South, with 
Dr^ Stewart of Luss. Seeing him pass 
quickly, near Closeburn, I said to my com- 
panion, ' that is Burns.' On coming to the 
inn, the hostler told us he would be back in 
a few hours to grant permits ; that where he 
met with any thing seizable, he was no better 
than any other ganger ; in every thing else, 
that he was perfectly a gentleman. After 
leaving a note to be delivered to him on his 
return, I proceeded to his house, being cu- 
rious to see his Jean, &c. I was much 
pleased with his uxor Sabina qualis, and the 
poet's modest mansion, so unlike the habi- 
tation of ordinary rustics. In the evening 
he suddenly bounced in upon us, and said, as 
he entered, [ come, to use the words of Shaks- 
peare, stewed in haste. In fact he had ridden 
incredibly fast after receiving ray note. We 
fell into conversation directly, and soon got 
into the mare magnum of poetry. He told 
me that he had now gotten a story for a 
Drama, which he was to call Rob Macque- 
Chan's Elshon, from a popular story of Robert 
Bruce being defeated on the water of Caern, 
when the heel of his boot having loosened in 
his flight, he applied to Robert Macquechan 
to fit it ; who, to meike sure, ran his awl nine 
inches up the king's heel. We were now 

going on at a great rate, when Mr. S 

popped in his head, which put a stop to our 
discourse, which had become very interest- 
ing. Yet in a little while it was resumed ; 
and such was the force and versatility of the 
bard's genius, that he made the tears run 

down Mr. S 's cheeks, albeit tuiused to 

the poetic strain. ♦ * * From that time 
we met no more, and I was grieved at the 
reports of him afterwards. Poor Burns ! we 
shall hardly ever see his like again. He 
was, in truth, a sort of comet in literature, 
irregular in its motions, which did not do 
good proportioned to the blaze of light it dis- 
played." 



THE LIFE OF BUENs!. 



47 



In the summer of 1791, two English gen- 
tlemen, who had before met with him in 
Edinburgh, paid a visit to him at Ellisland. 
On calling at the house they were informed 
that he had walked out on the banks of the 
river ; and dismounting from their horses, 
they proceeded in search of him. On a rock 
that projected into the stream, they saw a 
man employed in angling, of a singular ap- 
pearance. He had a cap made of a fox's 
skin on his head, a loose great coat fixed 
round him by a belt, from which depended 
an enormous Highland broad-sword. It was 
Burns. He received them with great cordi- 
ality, and asked them to share his humble 
dinner — an invitation which they accepted 
On the table they found boiled beef, with ve- 
getables, and barley-broth, after the manner 
of Scotland, of which they partook heartily. 
After dinner, the bard told them ingenuously 
that he had no wine to offer them, nothing 
better than Highland whiskey, a bottle of 
which Mrs. Burns set on the board. He pro- 
duced at the same time his punch-bowl made 
of Inverary marble ; and, mixing the spirit 
with water and sugar, filled their glasses, 
and invited them to drink.* The travellers 
were in haste, and besides, the flavour of the 
whiskey to their southron palates was scarcely 
tolerable ; but the generous poet offered them 
his best, and his ardent hospitality they found 
it impossible to resist. Burns was in his hap- 
piest mood, and the charms of his conversa- 
tion were altogether fascinating. He ranged 
over a great variety of topics, illuminating 
whatever he touched. He related the tales 
of his infancy and of his youth ; he recited 
some of the gayest and some of the tenderest 
of his poems ; in the wildest of his strains of 
mirth, he threw in some touches of melan- 
choly, and spread around him the electric 
emotions of his powerful mind. The High- 
land whiskey improved in its flavour ; the 
marble bowl was again and again emptied 
and replenished ; the guests of our poet for- 
got the flight of time, and the dictates of 
prudence : at the hour of midnight they lost 
their way in returning to Dumfries, and could 
scarcely distinguish it when assisted by the 
morning's dawn.t 

Besides his duties in the excise and his 
social pleasures, other circumstances inter- 
fered with the attention of Burns to his farm. 
He engaged in the formation of a society for 
purchasing and circulating books among the 
farmers of his neighbourhood, of which he 
undertook the management ;t and he occu- 



* This bowl was made of the lapis ollaris^ the 
stone of which Inverary-house is bnilt, the man- 
sion of the family of Argyle. 

+ Given from the information of one of the 
party. 

tSeeNo. LXXXVin. 



pied himself occasionally in composing songs 
for the musical work of Mr. Johnson, then in 
the course of publication. These engage- 
ments, useful and honourable in themselves, 
contributed, no doubt, to the abstraction of 
his thoughts from the business of agri- 
culture. 

The consequences may be easily imagined. 
Notwithstanding the uniform prudence and 
good management of Mrs. Burns, and though 
his rent was moderate and reasonable, our 
poet found it convenient, if not necessary, to 
resign his farm to Mr. Miller, after having 
occupied it three years and a half. His office 
in the excise had originally produced about 
fifty pounds per annum. Having acquitted 
himself to the satisfaction of the board, he 
had been appointed to a new district, the 
emoluments of which rose to about seventy 
pounds per annum. Hoping to support him- 
self and his family on this humble income 
till promotion should reach him, he disposed 
of his stock and of his crop on Ellisland by 
public auction, and removed to a small house 
which he had taken in Dumfries, about the 
end of the year 1791. 

Hitherto Burns, though addicted to excess 
in social parties, had abstained from the ha- 
bitual use of strong liquors, and his constitu- 
tion, had not suffered any permanent injury 
from the irregularities of his conduct. In 
Dumfries, temptations to the sin that so easily 
beset him, continually presented themselves ; 
and his irregularities grew by degrees into 
habits. These temptations unhappily oc- 
curred during his engagements in the busi- 
ness of his office, as well as during his hours 
of relaxation ; and though he clearly foresaw 
the consequences of yielding to them, his 
appetites and sensations, which could not 
prevent the dictates of his judgment, finall/ 
triumphed over the powers of his will. Yet 
this victory was not obtained without many 
obstinate struggles, and at times temperance 
and virtue seemed to have obtained the mas- 
tery. Besides his engagements in the excise, 
and the society into which they led, many 
circumstances contributed to the melancholy 
fate of Burns. His great celebrity made him 
an object of interest and curiosity to strangers, 
and few persons of cultivated minds passed 
through Dumfries without attempting to see 
our poet, and to enjoy the pleasure of his 
conversation. As he could not receive them 
under his own humble roof, these interviews 
passed at the inns of the town, and often ter- 
minated in those excesses which Burns 
sometimes provoked, and was seldom able to 
resist. And among the inhabitants of Dum- 
fries and its vicinity, there were never want- 
ing persons to share his social pleasures ; to 
lead or accompany him to the tavern; to 
partake in the wildest sallies of his wit ', to 
witness the strength and the degradation of 
his genius. 



48 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



Still, however, he cultivated the society of 
persons of taste and of respectability, and in 
their company could impose on himself the 
restraints of temperance and decorum. Nor 
was his muse dormant. In the four years 
which he lived in Dumfries, he produced 
many of his beautiful lyrics, though it does 
not appear that he attempted any poem of 
considerable length. During his time he 
made several excursions into the neio-hbour- 
ing country, of one of which, through Gallo- 
way, an account is preserved in a letter of 
Mr. Syme, written soon after ; which, as it 
gives an animated picture of him by a correct 
and masterly hand, we shall present to the 
reader. 

•' I got Burns a gray Highland shelty to 
ride on. We dined the first day, 27th Julj', 
1793, at Glendenwynes of Parton ! a beauti- 
ful situation on the banks of the Dee. In the 
evening we walked out, and ascended a gen- 
tle eminence, from which we had as fine a 
view of Alpine scenery as can well be ima- 
gined. A delightful soft evening showed all 
its wilder as well as its grander graces. Im- 
mediately opposite, and within a mile of us, 
we saw Airds, a charming romantic place, 
where dwelt Low, the author of Mary weep 
no more for me* This was classical ground 
for Burns. He viewed ' the highest hill 
which rises o'er the source of Dee ;' and 
would have staid till ' the passing spirit' 
had appeared, had we not resolved to reach 
Kenmore that night. We arrived as Mr. 
and Mrs. Gordon were sitting down to sup- 
per. 

*' Here is a genuine baron's seat. The 
castle, an old building, stands on a large na- 
tural moat. In front, the river Ken winds 
)for several miles through the most fertile 
and beautiful holm,\ till it expands into a 
iake twelve miles long, the banks of which, 
on the south, present a fine and soft land- 
escape of green knolls, natural wood, and 
here and there a gray rock. On the north, 
the aspect is great, wild, and, I may say, 
tremendous. In short, I can scarcely con- 
ceive a scene more terribly romantic than 
the castle of Kenmore. Burns thinks so 
highly of it, that he meditates a description 



* A beautiful and well-known ballad, which 
begins thus — 

" The moon had climbed the highest hill, 
Which rises o'er the source of Dee, 

And, from the eastern summit, shed 
Its silver light on tower and tree. 

f The level low ground on the banks of a river 
or stream. This word should be adopted from 
the Scottish, as, indeed, ought several others of 
the same nature. That dialect is singularly co- 
pious and exact in the denominations of natural 
objects. E. 



of it in poetry. Indeed, I believe he has be- 
gun the work. We spent three days with 
Mr. Gordon, whose polished hospitality is of 
an original and endearing kind. Mrs. Gor- 
don's lap-dog Echo, was dead. She would 
have an epitaph for him. Several had been 
made. Burns was asked for one. This was 
setting Hercules to his distaff. He disliked 
the subject ; but to please the lady he would 
try. Here is what he produced 

•In wood and wild, ye warbling throng, 

Your heavy loss deplore ! 
Now half e.xtinct your powers of song, 

Sweet Echo is no more. 

Ye jarring screeching things around. 

Scream your discordant joys ! 
Now half your din of tuneless song 

With Eciio silent lies.' 

" We left Kenmore, and went to Gate- 
house, 1 took him the moor-road, where sa- 
vage and desolate regions extended wide 
around. The sky was sympathetic with the 
wretchedness of the soil ; it became lower- 
ing and dark. The hollow winds sighed, 
the lightnings gleamed, the thunder rolled. 
The poet enjoyed the awful scene — he spoke 
not a word, but seemed wrapt in meditation. 
In a little while the rain began to fall; it 
poured in floods upon us. For three hours 
did the wild elements rumble their belly full 
upon our defenceless heads. Oh! Oh! 'twas 
foul We got utterly wet ; and to revenge 
ourselves, Burns insisted at Gatehouse on 
our getting utterly drunk. 

" From Gatehouse, we went next day to 
Kirkcudbright, through a fine country. But 
here I must tell you that Burns had got a 
pair of jemmy boots for the journey, which 
had been thoroughly wet, and which had 
been dried in such a manner that it was not 
possible to get them on again. The brawny 
poet tried force, and tore them to shreds. A 
whiffling vexation of this sort is more trying 
to the temper than a serious calamity. We 
were going to St. Mary's Isle, the seat of the 
Earl of Selkirk, and the forlorn Burns was 
discomfitted at the thoughts of his ruined 
boots. A sick stomach, and a head-ache, 
lent their aid, and the man of verse was quite 
accable. I attempted to reason with him. 
Mercy on us ! how he did fume with rage ! 
Nothing could reinstate him in temper. I 
tried various expedients, and at last hit on 
one that succeeded. I showed him the house 
of * * *, across the bay of Wigton. 
Against * * *, with whom he was 
offended, he expectorated his spleen, and re- 
gained a most agreeable temper. He was in 
a most epigrammatic humour indeed ! He 
afterwards fell on humbler game. There is 
one * * * whom he does not love. He 
had a passing blow at him. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



49 



*« When , deceased, to the devil went down, 

'Twas nothing would serve him but Satan's own 

crown : 
Thy fool's head, quoth Satan, that crown shall 

wear never, 
I grant thou'rtas wicked, but not quite soclever." 

" Well, I am to bring you to Kirkcudbright 
alon^ with our poet, without boots. I car- 
ried the torn ruins across my saddle in spite 
of his fulminations, and in contempt of ap- 
pearances ; and what is more. Lord Selkirk 
carried them in his coach to Dumfries. He 
insisted they were worth mending. 

" We reached Kirkcudbright about one 
o'clock. I had promised that we should dine 
with one of the first men in our country, J. 
Dalzell. But Burns was in a wild obstrepe- 
rous humour, and swore he would not dine 
where he should be under the smallest re- 
straint. We prevailed, therefore, on Mr. 
Dalzell to dine with us in the inn, and had a 
very agreeable party. In the evening we 
set out for St. Mary's Isle. Robert had not 
absolutely regained the milkiness of good 
temper, and it occurred once or twice to 
him, as he rode along, that St. Mary's Isle 
was the seat of a Lord ; yet that Lord was 
not an aristocrat, at least in the sense of the 
word. We arrived about eight o'clock, as 
the family were at tea and coffee. St. Ma- 
ry's Isle is one of the most delightful places 
that can, in my opinion, be formed by the 
assemblage of every soft, but not tame ob- 
ject, which constitutes natural and cultivated 
beauty. But not to dwell on its external 
graces, let me tell you that we found all the 
ladies of the family (all beautiful) at home, 
and some strangers ; and among others who 
but Urbani! The Italian sung us many 
Scottish songs, accompanied with instru- 
mental music. The two young ladies of 
Selkirk sung also. We had the song of 
Lord Gregory, which I asked for, to have 
an opportunity of calling on Burns to recite 
his ballad to that tune. He did recite it ; 
and such was the effect, that a dead silence 
ensued. It was such a silence as a mind of 
feeling naturally preserves when it is touch- 
ed with that enthusiasm which banishes 
every other thought but the contemplation 
and indulgence of the sympathy produced. 
Burns's Lord Gregory is, in my opinion, a 
most beautiful and affecting ballad. The 
fastidious critic may perhaps say some of t)*e 
sentiments and imagery are of too elevated 
a kind for such a style of composition ; for 
instance, " Thou bolt of heaven that passest 
by ;" and " Ye mustering thunder," &c. ; 
but this is a cold-blooded objection, which 
will be said rather ihB,n felt. 

" We enjoyed a most happy evening at 
Lord Selkirk's. We had, in every sense of 
the word, a feast, in which our minds and 



our senses were equally gratified. The poet 
was delighted with his company, and acquit- 
ted himself to admiration . The lion that had 
raged so violently in the morning, was now 
as mild and gentle as a lamb. JNext day we 
returned to Dumfries, and so ends our pere- 
grination. I told you, that in the midst of 
the storm, on the wilds of Kenmore, Burns 
was wrapt in meditation. What do you 
think he was about ? He was charging the 
English army along with Bruce, atBanuock- 
burn He was engaged in the same manner 
on our ride home from St. Mary's Isle, and 
I did not disturb him. Next day he pro- 
duced me the following address of Bruce to 
his troops, and gave me a copy for Dalzell." 

" Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," &c. 

Burns had entertained hopes of promotion 
in the excise ; but circumstances occurred 
which retarded their fulfilment, and which, 
in his own mind, destroyed all expectation 
of their being ever fulfilled. The extraor- 
dinary events which ushered in the revolu- 
tion of France, interested the feelings, and 
excited the hopes of men in every corner of 
Europe. Prejudice and tyranny seemed 
about to disappear from among men, and the 
day-star of reason to rise upon a benighted 
world. In the dawn of this beautiful morn- 
ing, the genius of French freedom appeared 
on our southern horizon with the counte- 
nance of an angel, but speedily assumed the 
features of a demon, and vanished in a show- 
er of blood. 

Though previously a jacobite and a cava- 
lier. Burns had shared in the original hopes 
entertained of this astonishing revolution, by 
ardent and benevolent minds. The novelty 
and the hazard of the attempt meditated by 
the First, or Constituent Assembly, served 
rather, it is probable, to recommend it to his 
daring temper; and the unfettered scope 
proposed to be given to every kind of talents, 
was doubtless gratifying to the feelings of 
conscious but indignant genius. Burns fore- 
saw not the mighty ruin that was to be the 
immediate consequence of an enterprise, 
which on its commencement, promised so 
much happiness to the human race. And 
even after the career of guilt and of blood 
commenced, he could not immediately, it 
may be presumed, withdraw his partial gaze 
from a people who had so lately breathed the 
sentiments of universal peace and benignity ; 
or obliterate in his bosom the pictures of 
hope and of happiness to which those senti- 
ments had given birth. Under these im- 
pressions, he did not always conduct himself 
with the circumspection and prudence which 
his dependant situation seemed to demand. 
He engaged indeed in no popular associa- 
tions, so common at the time of which we 
speak : but in company he did not concea.l 
his opinions of public measures, or of the re 



50 



IHE LIFE OP BURNS. 



forms required in the practice of our govern- 
ment ; and sometimes in his social and un- 
guarded moments, he uttered them with a 
wild and unjustifiable vehemence. Informa- 
tion of this was given to the Board of Excise, 
with the exaggerations so general in such 
cases. A superior officer in that department 
was authorized to inquire into his conduct. 
Burns defended himself in a letter addressed 
to one of the Board, written with great inde- 
pendence of spirit, and with more than his 
accustomed eloquence The officer appointed 
to inquire into his conduct gave a favourable 
report. His steady friend, Mr Graham of 
Fintry, interposed his good offices in his be- 
half; and the imprudent ganger was suffered 
to retain his situation, but given to under- 
stand that his promotion was deferred, and 
must depend on his future behaviour. 

" This circumstance made a deep impres- 
sion on the mind of Burns. Fame exagger- 
ated his misconduct, and represented him as 
actually dismissed from his office ; and this 
report induced a gentleman of much respec- 
tability to propose a subscription in his favour. 
The ©ffer was refused by our poet in a letter 
of great elevation of sentiment, in which he 
gives an account of the whole of this trans- 
action, and defends himself from the imputa- 
tion of disloyal sentiments on the one hand, 
and on the other, from the charge of having 
made submission for the sake of his office, 
unworthy of his character. 

**The partiality of my countrymen," he 
observes, " has brought me forward as a 
man of genius, and has given me a character 
to support. In the poet I have avowed manly 
and independent sentiments, which I hope 
have been found in the man. Reasons of no 
less weight than the support of a wife and 
childrenT have pointed out my present occu- 
pation as the only eligible line of life within 
my reach. Still my honest fame is my dear- 
est concern, and a thousand times have I 
trembled at the idea of the degrading epi- 
thets that malice or misrepresentation may 
affix to my name. Often in blasting antici- 
pation have I listened to some future hackney 
scribbler, with the heavy malice of savage 
stupidity, exultingly asserting that Burns, 
notwithstanding the Fanfaronnade of inde- 
pendence to be found in his works, and after 
having been held up to public view, and to 
public estimation, as a man of some genius, 
yet, quite destitute of resources within him- 
self to support his borrowed dignity, dwind- 
led into a paltry exciseman, and slunk out 
the rest of his insignificant existence in the 
meanest of pursuits, and among the lowest 
of mankind. 

" In your illustrious hands, Sir, permit me 
to lodge my strong disavowal and defiance of 
such slanderous mlsehoods. Burns was a 
poor man from his birth, and an exciseman 



by necessity ; but — I will say it ! the ster- 
ling of his honest worth poverty could not 
debase, and his independent British spirit, 
oppression might bend, but could not sub- 
due." 

It was one of the last acts of his life to 
copy this letter into his book of manuscripts, 
accompanied by some additional remarks on 
the same subject. It is not surprising, that 
at a season oif universal alarm for the safety 
of the constitution, the indiscreet expressions 
of a man so powerful as Burns, should have 
attracted notice. The times certainly re- 
quired extraordinary vigilance in those in- 
trusted with the administration of the go- 
vernment, and to ensure the safety of the 
constitution was doubtless their first duty. 
Yet generous minds will lament that their 
measures of precaution should have robbed 
the imagination of our poet of the last prop 
on which his hopes rf independence rested; 
and by embittering his peace, have aggra- 
vated those excesses which were soon to 
conduct him to an untimely grave. 

Though the vehemence of Burn's temper, 
increased as it often was by stimulating 
liquors, might lead him into many improper 
and unguarded expressions, there seems no 
reason to doubt of his attachment to our 
mixed form of government. In his common- 
place book, where he could have no tempta- 
tion to disguise, are the following senti- 
ments. — " Whatever might be my sentiments 
of republics, ancient or modern, as to Britain, 
I ever abjured the idea. A constitution, 
which in its original principles, experience 
has proved to be every way fitted for our 
happiness, it would be insanity to abandon 
for an untried visionary theory." In con- 
formity to these sentiments, when the press- 
ing nature of public aflfairs called, in 1795, 
for a general arming of the people, Burns 
appeared in the ranks of the Dumfries vo- 
lunteers, and employed his poetical talents 
in stimulating their patriotism ;* and at this 
season of alarm, he brought forward a hyran,t 
worthy of the Grecian muse, when Greece 
was most conspicuous for genius and valour. 



* See Poem entitled The Dumfries Volunteers. 

f The Song of Death, Poems, p. 83. This 
poem was written in 1791. It was printed in 
Johnson's Musical Museum. The poet had an 
intention, in the latter part of his life, of printing 
it separately, set to music, but was advised 
against it, or at least discouraged from it. The 
martial ardour which rose so high afterwards, 
on the threatened invasion, had not then acquired 
the tone necessary to give popularity to this noble 
poem ; which to the Editor, seems more calcu- 
lated to invigorate the spirit of defence, in a 
season of real and pressing danger, than any pro- 
duction of modern times. 



THE LIFE OP BURNS. 



51 



Though by nature of an athletic form, 
Burns had in his constitution the peculiari- 
ties and delicacies that belong to the tem-' 
perament of genius. He was liable, from a 
very early period of life, to that interruption 
in the process of digestion, which arises from 
deep and anxious thought, and which is some- 
times the effect and sometimes the cause of 
depression of spirits. Connected with this 
disorder of the stomach, there was a dispo- 
sition to head-ache, affecting more especially 
the temples and eye balls, and frequently ac- 
companied by violent and irregular move- 
ments of the heart. Endowed by nature with 
great sensibility of nerves. Burns was, in his 
corporeal, as well as in his mental system, 
liable to inordinate impressions ; to fever of 
body as well as of mind. This predisposition 
to disease, which strict temperance in diet, 
regular exercise, and sound sleep, might 
have subdued, habits of a very different na- 
ture strengthened and inflamed. Perpetually 
stimulated by alcohol in one or other of its 
various forms, the inordinate actions of the 
circulating system became at length habi- 
tual ; the process of nutrition was unable to 
supply the waste, and the powers of life began 
to fail. Upwards of a year before his death, 
there was an evident decline in our poet's 
personal appearance, and though his appetite 
continued unimpaired, he was himself sensi- 
ble that his constitution was sinking In his 
moments of thought he reflected with the 
deepest regret on his fatal progress, clearly 
foreseeing the goal towards which he was 
hastening, without the strength of mind ne- 
cessary to stop, or even to slacken his course. 
His temper now became more irritable and 
glo'imy ; he. fled from himself into society, 
often the lowest kind. And in such company, 
that part of the convivial scene, in which 
wine increases sensibility and excites bene- 
volence, was hurried over, to reach the suc- 
ceeding part, over which uncontrolled pas- 
sion generally presided. He who suffers the 
pollution of inebriation, how shall he escape 
other pollution ? But let us refrain from the 
mention of errors over which delicacy and 
humanity draw the veil. 

In the midst of all his wanderings. Burns 
met nothing in his domestic circle but gen- 
tleness and forgiveness, except in the gnaw- 
ingsof his own remorse. He acknowledged 
his transgressions to the wife of his bosom, 
promised amendment, and again and again 
received pardon for his offences. But as the 
strength of his body decayed, his resolution 
became feebler, and habit required predomi- 
nating strength. 

From October, 1795, to the January fol- 
lowing, an accidental complaint confined him 
to the house. A few daj's after he began to 
go abroad, he dined at a tavern, and returned 
home about three o'clock in a very cold morn- 
ing, benumbed and intoxicated. This was 



followed by an attack of rheumatism, which 
confined liim about a week. His appetite 
now began to fail ; his hand shook, and his 
voice faltered on any exertion or emotion. 
His pulse became weaker and more rapid, 
and pain in the larger joints, and in the 
hands and feet, deprived him of the enjoy- 
ment of refreshing sleep. Too much dejected 
in his spirits, and too well aware of his real 
situation to entertain hopes of recovery, he 
was ever musing on the approaching deso- 
lation of his famil}', and his spirits sunk into 
a uniform gloom. 

It was hoped by some of his friends, that if 
he could live through the months of spring, 
the succeeding season might restore him. 
But they were disappointed. The genial 
beams of the sun infused no vigour into iiis 
languid frame : the summer wind blew upon 
him, but produced no refreshment. About 
the latter end of June he was advised to go 
into the country, and impatient of medical 
advice, as well as of every species of control, 
he determined for himself to try the effects 
of bathing in the sea. For this purpose he 
took up his residence at Brow, in Annandale, 
about ten miles east of Dumfries, on the 
shore of the Solway-Firth. 

It happened that at that time a lady v/ith 
whom he had been connected in friendship 
by the sympathies of kindred genius, was re- 
siding in the immediate neighbourhood.* 
Being informed of his arrival, she invited 
him to diuiier, and sent her carriage for. him 
to the cottago whor© ho lodged, as he was 
unable to walk. — " I was struck," says this 
lady, (in a confidential letter to a friend writ- 
ten soon after,) " with his appearance on en- 
tering the room. The stamp of death was 
imprinted on his features. He seemed al- 
ready touching the brink of eternity. His 
first salutation was, ' Well, Madam, have you 
any commands for the other world .-• I re- 
plied, that it seemed a doubtful case which 
of us should be there soonest, and that I hoped 
he would yet live to write my epitaph. (I 
was t' len in a bad state of health.) He looked 
in my face with an air of great kindness, and 
expressed his concern at seeing me look so 
ill, with his accustomed sensibility. At table 
he ate little or nothing, and he complained 
of having entirely lost the tone of his sto- 
mach. We had a long and serious conver- 
sation about his present situation, and the 
approaching termination of all his earthly 
prospects. He spoke of his death without 
any of the ostentation of philosophy , but with 
firmness as well as feeling, as an event likely 
to happen very soon ; and which gave hiia 
concern chiefly from leaving his four chil- 
dren so young and unprotected, and hi^wife 



* For a character of this ladv, see letter, Tso- 
CXXIX , 



r 

L 



30 



52 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



in so interestiu-^ a situation — in hourly ex- 
pectation of lying in of a fifth. He men- 
tioned, with seeming pride and satisfaction, 
the promising genius of his oldest son, and 
the flattering marks of approbation he had 
received from his teachers, and dwelt par- 
ticularly on his hopes of that boy's future 
conduct and merit. His anxiety for his fa- 
mily seemed to hang heavy upon him, and 
the more perhaps from the reflection that he 
had not done them all the justice he was so 
well qualified to do. Passing from this sub- 
ject, he showed great concern about the care 
of his literary fame, and particularly the pub- 
lication of his posthumous works. He said 
he was well aware that his death would oc- 
casion some noise, and that every scrap of 
his writing would be revived against hmi to 
the injury of his future reputation ; that let- 
ters and verses written with unguarded and 
improper freedom, and which he earnestly 
wished to have buried in oblivion^ would be 
handed about by idle vanity or malevolence, 
when no dread of his resentment would re- 
strain them, or prevent the censures of shrill- 
tongued malice, or the insidious sarcasms of 
60%^^, from pouring forth all their venom to 
blast his fame. 

" He lamented that he had written many 
epigrams on persons against whom he enter- 
tained no enmity, and whose characters he 
should be sorry to wound ; and many indif- 
ferent poetical pieces, which he feared would 
now, with all their imperfections on their 
head, be thrust upon the world. Qn this ac- 
count he deeply regrptted having deferred 
to put his papers in a state of arrangement, 
as he was now quite incapable of the exer- 
tion." — The lady goes on to mention many 
other topics of a private nature on which he 
spoke. — " The conversation," she adds, *' was 
kept up with great evenness and animation 
on his side. I had seldom seen his mind 
greater or more collected. There was fre- 
quently a considerable degree of vivacity in 
his sallies, and they would probably have had 
a greater share, had not the concern and de- 
jection I could not disguise, damped the spirit 
of pleasantry he seemed not unwilling to in- 
dulge. 

" We parted about sunset on the evening 
of that day (the 5th July, 1796;) the next day 
I saw him again, and we parted to meet no 
more !" 

At first Burns imagined bathing in the sea 
had been of benefit to him: the pains in bis 
limbs were relieved; but this was imme- 
diately followed by a new attack of fever 
When brought back to his own house in 
Dumfries, on the 18th of July, he was no 
longer able to stand upright. At this time a 
tremor pervaded his frame ; his tongue was 
parched, and his mind sunk into delirium, 
when not roused bv conversation. On the 



second and third day the fever increased, and 
his strength diminished. On the fourth, the 
sufferings of this great but ill-fated genius, 
were terminated ; and a life was closed in 
which virtue and passion had been at per- 
petual variance.* 

The death of Burns made a strong and ge- 
neral impression on all who had interested 
themselves in his character, and especially 
on the inhabitants of the town and county in 
which he had spent the latter years of his 
life Flagrant as his follies and errors had 
been, they had not deprived him of the respect 
and regard entertained for the extraordinary 
powers of his genius, and the generous qua- 
lities of his heart. The Gentlemen-Volun- 
teers of Dumfries determined to bury their 
illustrious associate with military honours, 
and every preparation w^as made to render 
this last service solemn and impressive. The 
Fencible Infantry of Angusshire, and the re- 
gifnent of cavalry of the Cinque Ports, at 
that time quartered in Dumfries, offered 
their assistance on this occasion ; the prin- 
cipal inhabitants of the town and neighbour- 
hood determined to walk in the funeral pro- 
cession ; and a vast concourse of persons as- 
sembled, some of them from a considerable 
distance, to witness the obsequies of the 
Scottish Bard. On the evening of tlie 25th 
of July, the remains of Burns were removed 
from his house to the Town-Hall, and the 
funeral took place on the succeeding day. 
A party of the volunteers, selected to perform 
the military duty in the church-yard, sta- 
tioned themselves in the front of the proces- 
sion, with their arms reversed ; the main 
body of the corps surrounded and supported 
in the coffin, on which were placed the hat 
and sword of their friend and fellow soldier ; 
the numerous body of attendants ranged 
themselves in the rear ; while the Fencible 
regiments of infantry and cavalry lined the 
streets from the Town-Hall to the burial 
ground in the Southern church-yard, a dis- 
tance of more than half a mile. The whole 
procession moved forward to that sublime 
and affecting strain of music, the Dead March 
in Saul; and three volleys fired over his 
grave, marked the return of Burns to his 
parent earth ! The spectacle was in a higlv 
degree grand and solemn, and accorded with 
the general sentiments of sympathy and sor- 
row which the occasion had called forth. 

It was an affecting circumstance, that on 
the morning of the day of her husband's fu- 
neral, Mrs. Burns was undergoing tiie pains 
of labour; and that during the solemn ser- 
vice we have just been describing, the 
posthumous son of our poet was born. This 



* The particulars respecting the illness and 
death of Burns were obligingly furnished by Dr 
Maxwell, the physician who attended him. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



53 



infant boy, who received the name of Max- 
well, was not destined to along life. He has 
already become an inhabitant of the same 
grrave with his celebrated father. The four 
ot-lier children of our poet, all sons, (the el- 
dest at that time about ten years of age) yet 
survive, and give every promise of prudence 
and virtue that can be expected from their 
tender years. They remain under the care 
of their affectionate mother in Dumfries, and 
are enjoying the means of education which 
tiie excellent schools of that town afford ; the 
teachers of which, in their conduct to the 
children of Burns, do themselves great ho- 
nour. On this occasion the name of Mr. 
Why te deserves to be particularly mentioned , 
himself a poet, as well as a man of science.* 

Burns died in great poverty ; but the inde- 
pendence of hi5 spirit and the exemplary 
prudence of his wife, had preserved him from 
debt. He nad received fr\im his poems a 
clear profit of about nine hundred pounds. 
Of this sum, the part experfded on his library 
(which was far from extensive) and in the 
humble furniture of his house, remained ; 
and obligations w< re f.und for two hundred 
pounds advanced by him to the assistance of 
those to whom he was united by the ties of 
blood, and still more by those of esteem and 
affection. When it is considered, that his 
expenses in Edinburgh, and on his various 
journeys, could not be inconsiderable ; that 
his agricultural undertaking was unsuccess- 
ful ; that his income from the excise was for 
some time as low as fifty, and never rose to 
above seventy pounds a-year ; that his family 
was large, and his spirit liberal — no one will 
be surprised that his circumstances were so 
poor, or that, as his health decayed, his proud 
and feeling heart sunk under the secret con- 
sciousness of indigence, and the apprehen- 
sions of absolute want. Yet poverty never 
bent the spirit of Burns to any pecuniary 
meanness. Neither chicanery nor sordidness 
ever appeared in his conduct. He carried 
his disregard of money to a blameable excess. 
Even in the midst of distress he bore himself 
loftily to the world, and received with a 
jealous reluctance every offer of friendly as- 
sistance. His printed poems had procured 
him great celebrity, and a just and fair re- 
compense for the latter offsprings of his pen 
might have produced him considerable emo- 
lument. In the year 1795, the Editor of a 
London newspaper, high in its cbaiacter for 
literature, and independence of sentiment, 
made a proposal to him that he should furnish 
them once a week, with an article for their 
poetical department, and receive from them 
a recompense of fifty-two guineas per an- 
num ; an offer which the pride of genius dis- 
dained to accept. Yet he had for several 
years furnished, and was at that time fur- 



* Author of " St. Guerdon's Well," a poem ; 
and of" A Tribute to the Memory of Burns." 



nishing, the Museum of Johnson with his 
beautiful lyrics, without fee or reward, and 
was obstinately refusing all recompense for 
his assistance to the greater work of Mr. 
Thomson, which the justice and generosity 
of that gentleman was pressing upon him. 

The sense of his poverty, and of the ap- 
proaching distress of his infant family, pres- 
sed heavily on Burns as he lay on the bed of 
death. Yet he alluded to his indigence, at 
times, with something approaching to his 
wonted gayety — " What business,'"' said he 
to Dr. Maxwell, who attended him with the 
utmost zeal, " has a physician to waste his 
time on me .-* I am a poor pigeon, not worth 
plucking. Alas! I have not feathers enough 
upon me to carry me to my grave." And 
when his reason was lost in delirium, his ideas 
ran in the same melancholy train ; the hor- 
rors of a jail were continually present to his 
troubled imagination, and produced the most 
affecting exclamations. 

As for some months previous to his death 
he had been incapable of the duties of his of- 
fice. Burns dreaded that his salary should be 
reduced one half, as is usual in such cases. 
His full emoluments were, however, conti- 
nued to him by the kindness of Mr. Stobbie, 
a young expectant in the excise, who per- 
formed the duties of his office without fee or 
reward ; and Mr. Graham, of Fintry, hear- 
ing of his illness, though unacquainted with 
its dangerous nature, made an offer of his 
assistance towards procuring him the means 
of preserving his health. Whatever min-ht 
be the faults of Burns, ingratitude was not 
of the number. — Amongst his manuscripts, 
various proofs are found of the sense he en- 
tertained of Mr. Graham's friendship, which 
delicacy towards that gentleman has induced 
us to suppress; and on this last occasion, 
there is no doubt that his heart overflowed 
towards him, though he had no longer the 
power of expressing his feelings.*^ 

On the death of Burns, the inhabitants of 
Dumfries and its neighbourhood, opened a 
subscription for the support of his wife and 
family; and Mr. Miller, Mr. M'Murdo, Dr. 
Maxwell, Mr. Symc, and Mr. Cunningham, 
gentlemen of the first respectability, became 
trustees for the apphcation of the money to 
its proper objects. The subscription was 
extended to other parts of Scotland, and of 
England niso, particularly London and Li- 
verpool. By this means a sum was raised 
amounting to seven hundred pounds ; and 
thus the widow and children were rescued 
from immediate distress, and the most me- 
lancholy of the forebodings of Burns happily 

* The letter of Mr. Graham, alluded to abovey 
is dated on the 13th of July, and probably arrivecJ 
on the 15th. Burns l)ecanie delirious on the J?ih 
or IBth, and died on the 21st. 



o4 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



disappointed. It is true, this sum, though 
fiqual to their present support, is insufficient 
to secure them from future penury. Their 
hope in regard to futurity depends on the fa- 
vourable reception of these volumes from the 
public at large, in the promoting of which 
the candour and humanity of the reader may 
induce him to lend iiis assistance. 

Burns, as has already been mentioned, was 
nearly five feet ten inches in height, and 
of a form that indicated agility as well as 
strength. His well-raised forehead, shaded 
with black curling hair, indicated extensive 
capacity. His eyes were large, dark, full of 
ardour and intelligence. His face was well 
formed ; and his countenance uncommonly 
interesting and expressive. His mode of 
dressing, which was often slovenly, and a 
certain fullness and bend in his shoulders, 
characteristic of his original profession, dis- 
guised in some degree the natural symme- 
try and elegance of his form. The external 
appearance of Burns was most strikingly in- 
dicative of the character of his mind. On a 
first view, his physiognomy had a certain air 
of coarseness, mingled, however, with an ex- 
pression of deep penetration, and of calm 
thoughtfulness, approaching to melancholy. 
There appeared in his fi^rst manner and ad- 
dross, perfect ease and self possession, but a 
stern and almost supercilious elevation, not, 
indeed, incompatible with openness and affa- 
bility, which, however, bespoke a mind con- 
scious of superior talents. Strangers that 
supposed themselves approaching an Ayr- 
shire peasant who could make rhymes, and 
to whom their notice was an honour, found 
themselves speedily overawed by the pre- 
sence of a man who bore himself with digni- 
ty, and who possessed a singular power of 
correcting forwardness, and of repelling in- 
trusion. But though jealous of the respect 
due tohimself. Burns never enforced it where 
he saw it was willingly paid ; and, though 
inaccessible to the approaches of pride, he 
was open to every advance of kindness and 
of benevolence. His dtvrk and haughty coun- 
tenance easily relaxed into a look of good- 
will, of pity, or of tenderness; and, as the 
various emotions succeeded each other in his 
mind, assumed with equal ease the expres- 
sion of the broadest humour, of the most ex- 
travagant mirth, of the deepest melancholy, 
or of the most sublime emotion. The tones 
of his voice happily corresponded with the 
expression of his features and with the feel- 
ings of his mind When to these endow- 
ments are added a rapid and distinct appre- 
hension, a most powerful understanding, and 
a happy command of language— of strength 
as well as brilliancy of expression — we shall 
be able to account for the extraordinary at- 
tractions of his conversation — for the sorce- 
ry which in his social parties he seemed to 
exert on all around him. In the company of 
women this sorcery was more especially ap- 



parent. Their presence charmed the fiend 
of melancholy in his bosom, and awoke his 
happiest feelings ; it excited the powers of 
his fancy, as well as the tenderness of his 
heart ; and, by restraining the vehemence 
and the exuberance of his language, at times 
gave to his manners the impression of taste, 
and even of elegance, which in the company 
of men they seldom possessed. This in- 
fluence was doubtless reciprocal. A Scot- 
tish Lady, accustomed to the best society, 
declared with characteristic naivete, that no 
man's conversation ever carried her so covi- 
pletely off her feet as that of Burns ; and an 
English Lady, familiarly acquainted with se- 
veral of the most distinguished characters of 
the present times, assured the editor, that in 
the happiest of his social hours there was a 
charm about Burns which she had never seen 
equalled. This charm arose not more from 
the power than the versatility of his genius. 
No languor could be felt in the society of a 
man who passed at pleasure from grave to 
gay, from the ludicrous to the pathetic, from 
the simple to the sublime; who wielded all 
his faculties with equal strength and ease, 
and never failed to impress the offspring of 
his fancy with the stamp of his understand- 
ing. 

This, indeed, is to represent Burns in his 
happiest phasis. In large and mixed parties 
he was often silent and dark, sometimes fierce 
and overbearing; he was jealous of the proud 
man's scorn, jealous to an extreme of the in- 
solence of wealth, and prone to avenge, even 
on its innocent possessor, the partiality of 
fortune. By nature kind, brave, sincere, and 
in a singular degree compassionate, he was 
on the other hand proud, irascible, and vin- 
dictive. His virtues and his failings had 
their origin in the extraordinary sensibility 
of his mind, and equally partook of the chills 
and glows of sentiment. His friendships 
were liable to interruption from jealousy or 
disgust, and his enmities died away under the 
influence of pity or self-accusation. His un- 
derstanding was equal to the other powers 
of his mind, and his deliberate opinions were 
singularly candid and just ; but, like other 
men of great and irregular genius, the opi- 
nions which he delivered in conversation 
were often the offspring of temporary feel- 
ings, and widely different from the calm de- - 
cisions of his judgment. This was not mere- 
ly true respecting the characters of others, 
but in regard to some of the most important 
points of human speculation. 

On no subject did he give a more striking 
proof of the strength of his understanding, 
than in the correct estimate he formed of 
himself. He knew his own failings ; he pre- 
dicted their consequence ; the melancholy 
foreboding was never long absent from his 
mind ; yet his passions carried him down the 
55tream of error, and swept him over the pre- 



•HIE LIFE OF BURNS. 



55 



cJpicc he saw directly in his course. The fa- 
tal defect in his character lay in the compa- 
rative weakness of his volition, that superior 
faculty of the mind, which governing the 
conduct according to the dictates of the un- 
derstanding alone entitles it to be denomi- 
nated rational; which is the parent of forti- 
tude, patience, and self-denial ; which, by 
regulating and combining human exertions, 
may be said to have effected all that is great 
in the works of man, in literature, in science, 
or on the face of nature. The occupations 
of a poet are not calculated to strengthen 
the governing powers of the mind, or to 
weaken that sensibility which requires per- 
petual control, since it gives birth to the ve- 
hemence of passion as well as to the higher 
powers of imagination. Unfortunately the 
favourite occupations of genius are calcu- 
lated to increase all its peculiarities ; to nou- 
rish that lofty pride which disdains' the lit- 
tleness of prudence, and the restrictions of 
order: and by indulgence, to increase that 
^sensibility which, in the present form of our 
existence, is scarcely compatible with peace 
or happiness, even when accompanied with 
the choicest gifts of fortune ! 

It is observed by one who was a friend and 
associate of Burns,* and who has contem- 
plated and explained the system of animated 
nature, that no sentient being with mental 
powers greatly superior to those of men, 
could possibly live and be happy in this 
world — " If such a being really existed," 
continues he, " his misery would be extreme. 
With senses more delicate and refined , with 
perceptions more acute and penetrating ; 
with a taste so exquisite that the objects 
around him would by no means gratify it ; 
obliged to feed on nourishment too gross for 
his frame ; he must be born only to be mi- 
serable ; and the continuation of his exist- 
ence would be utterly impossible. Even in 
our present condition, the sameness and the 
insipidity of objects and pursuits, the futility 
of pleasure, and the infinite sources of excru- 
ciating pain, are supported with great diffi- 
culty by cultivated and refined minds. In- 
crease our sensibilities, continue the same 
objects and situation, and no man could bear 
to live." 

Thus it appears, that our powers of sensa- 
tion as well as all our other powers, are 
adapted to the scene of our existence ; that 
they are limited in mercy, as well as in wis- 
dom. 

The speculations of Mr. Smellie are not to 
be considered as the dreams of a theorist ; 
they were probably founded on sad expe- 
rience. The being he supposes, " with 
senses more delicate and refined, with per- 

* Smellie — See his " Philosophy of Natural 
History." 



ceptions more acute and penetrating," is to 
be found in real life. He is of the tempera- 
ment of genius, and perhaps a poet. Is 
there, then, no remedy for this inordinate 
sensibility .'' Arc there no means by which 
the happiness of one so constituted by na- 
ture may be consulted .-' Perhaps it will be 
found, that regular and constant occupation, 
irksome though it may at first be, is the true 
remedy. Occupation in which the powers 
of the understanding are exercised, will di- 
minish the force of external impressions, 
and keep the imagination under restraint. 

That the bent of every man's mind should 
be followed in his education and in his desti- 
nation in life, is a maxim which has been 
often repeated, but which cannot be admit- 
ted, without many restrictions. It may be 
generally true when applied to weak minds, 
which being capable of little, must be en- 
couraged and strengthened in the feeble im- 
pulses by which that little is produced. But 
where indulgent nature has bestowed her 
gifts with a liberal hand, the very reverse 
of this maxim ought frequently to be the rule 
of conduct. In minds of a higher order, the 
object of instruction and of discipline is very 
often to restrain, rather than to impel ; to 
curb the impulses of imagination, so that the 
passions also may be kept under control.* 

Bence the advantages, even in a moral 
point of view, of studies of a severer nature, 
which while they inform the understanding, 
employ the volition, that regulating power 
of the mind, which, like all our other facul- 
ties, is strengthened by exercise, and on the 
superiority of which, virtue, happiness, and 
honourable fame, are wholly dependant. — 
Hence also the advantage of regular and 
constant application, which aids the volun- 
tary power by the production of habits so 
necessary to the support of order and virtue, 
and so difficult to be formed in the tempera- 
ment of genius. 

The man who is so endowed and so regu- 
lated, may pursue his course with confidence 
in almost any of the various walks of life 

* Quinctiliau discusses the important ques- 
tion, whether the bent of the individual's genius 
should be followed in his education, (an secundum 
sui quisque ingenii docendus sit naiuram,) chiefly, 
indeed, with a reference to the orator, but in a 
way that admits of very general application. His 
fonclusionscoincide very much with those ofthe 
text. " An vero Isocrates cum de Ephoroatque 
Theopompo sic judicaret, ui alteri J'renis, alteri 
calcaribus opus esse diceret ; aut in illo lentiore 
tarditatem, aut in illo pene praecipiti concitatio- 
nem adjuvandum docendo existimavit .'' cum al- 
terum alterius natura miscendum arbitraretur. 
Imbecillis tamen ingeniis sane sic obsequendum, 
sit, ut tantum in id quo vocat natura, ducantur. 
Itaenim, quod solum possunt, melius efficient." 
Inst. Orator, lib. ii. 9. 



56 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



which choice or accident shall open to him ; 
and, provided he employs the talents he has 
cultivated, may hope for such imperfect hap- 
piness, and such limited success, as are rea- 
sonably to be expected from human exer- 
tions. 

The pre-eminence among men, which pro- 
cures personal respect, and which terminates 
in lasting reputation, is seldom or nevtr ob- 
tained by the excellence of a single faculty 
of mind. Experience teaches us, that it has 
been acquired by those only who have pos- 
sessed the comprehension and the energy of 
general talents, and who have regulated their 
application, in the line which chuice, or per- 
haps accident, may have determined, by the 
dictates of their judgment. Imagination is 
supposed, and with justice, to be the leading 
faculty of the poet. But what poet has stood 
the test of time by the force of this single 
faculty ? Who does not see that Homer and 
Shakspeare excelled the rest of their species 
in understanding as well as in imagination ; 
that they were pre-eminent in the highest 
species of knowledge — the knowledge of the 
nature and character of man ? On the otlier 
hand, the talent of ratiocination is more es- 
pecially requisite to the orator ; but no man 
ever obtained the palm of oratory, even by 
the highest excellence in this single talent. 
Who does not perceive that Demost))enesand 
Cicero were not more happy in their ad- 
dresses to the reason, than in their appeals 
to the passions .' They knew that to excste, 
to agitate, and to delight, are among the 
most potent arts of persuasion; and they 
enforced their impression on the understand- 
ing, by their command of all the sympathies 
of'the heart. These observations might be 
extended to other walks of life. He who has 
the faculties fitted to excel in poetry, has 
the faculties which, duly governed, and dif- 
ferently directed, might lead to pre-eminence 
in other, and, as far as respects himself, per- 
haps in happier destinations. The talents 
necessary to theconstructionof an Iliad, un- 
der different discipline and application, might 
have led armies to victory, or kingdoms to 
prosperity ; might have wielded the thunder 
of eloquence, or discovered and enlarged the 
sciences that constitute the power and im- 
prove the condition of our species.* Such 

* The reader must not suppose it is contended 
that the same individual could have excelled in 
all these directions A certain degree of instruc- 
tion and practice is necessary to excellence in 
every one, and life is too short to admit of one 
man, however great l)is talents, acquiring this in 
all of them. It is only asserted, that the same 
xalents, differently applied, might have succeeded 
in any one, though perhaps, not equally well in 
each. And, after all, this position requires cer- 
tain limitations, which the reader's candour and 
judgment will supply. In supposing that a great 
poet might have made a great orator, tlie physi- 



talents are, indeed, rare among the produc- 
tions of nature, and occasions of bringing 
them into full exertion are rarer still. But 
safe and salutary occupations may be found 
for men of genius in every direction, while 

cal qualities necessary to oratory are pre-sup- 
posed. In supposing that a great orator miglit 
have made a great poet, it is a necessary condi- 
tion, that he should have devoted himself to po- 
etry, and that die should have acquired a profi- 
ciency in metrical numbers, which by patience 
and attention may be acquired, though the want 
of it has embarrassed and chilled many of the 
first efforts of true poetical genius. In supposing 
that iomer might have led armies to victory, 
more indeed is assumed than the physical quali- 
ties of a general. To these must be added that 
hardihood of mind, that coolness in the midst of 
difficulty and danger, which great poets and ora- 
tors are found sometimes, but not always to pos- 
sess. . Ttie nature of the institutions of Greece 
and Rome produced more instances nf single in- 
dividuals who excelled in various departments 
of active and speculative life, than occur in mo- 
dern Europe, where the employments of men are 
more subdivided. Many of the greati-st warriors 
of antiquity excelled in literature and in oratory. 
Tliat they had theminds of great poets also, will 
be admitted, when the qualities are justly appre- 
ciated which are necessary to excite, combine, 
and command the active energies of a great body 
of men, to rouse that enthusiasm which sustains 
fatigue, hunger, and the inclemencies of the ele- 
ments, and which triumphs over the fear of death, 
the most powerfnl instinct of our nature. 

The authority of Cicero may be appealed to in 
favour of the close connexion between the poet 
and the orator. Est enim finitimus oratori po- 
eta, numeris adstrictior paulo, verborum autem 
licentia liberior, Sfc. De Oratore, Lib. i. c. 16. 
See also Lib. iii^ c. 7. — It is true the example of 
Cicero may be quoted against his opinion. His 
attempts in verse, which are praised l)y Plutarch, 
do not seem to have met the approbation of Ju- 
venal, or of some others. Cicero probably did 
not take sufficient time to learn the art of the poet : 
but that he had the afflatus necessary to poetical 
excellence, may be abundantly proved from his 
compositions in prose. On the other hand, no- 
thing is more clear, than that, in the character 
of a great poet, all the mental qualities of an ora- 
tor are included. It is said by Quinctilian, of 
Homer, Omnibus eloquentice partibus exemplum 
ei orium dedit. Lib. i. 47. The study of Homer 
is therefore recommended to the orator, as of the 
first importance. Of the two sublime poets in 
our own language, who are hardly inferior to 
Homer, Shakspeare and Milton, a similar recom- 
mendation may be given. It is scarcely neces- 
sary to mention how much an acquaintance with 
them has availed the great orator who is now the 
pride and ornament of the English bar, a cha- 
racter that may be appealed to with singular ^ 
propriety, when we are contending for the uni- 
versality of genius. 

Tiie identity, or at least the great similarity, of 
the talents necessary to excellence'm poetry, ora- 
tory, painting, and war, will be admitted by 
some, who will be inclined to dispute the exten- 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



57 



the useful and ornamental arts remain to be 
cultivated, while the sciences remain to be 
studied and to be extended, and principles of 
science to be applied to the correction and 
improvement of art. In the temperament 
of sensibility, which is in truth the tempera- 
ment of general talents, the principal object 
of discipUne and instruction is, as has al- 
ready been mentioned, to strengthen the self- 
command ; and this may be promoted by the 
direction of the studies, more effectually per- 
haps than has been generall}^ understood. 

If these observations be founded in truth, 
they may lead to practical consequences of 
some importance. It hag been too much the 
custom to consider the possession of poetical 
talents as excluding t!ie possibility of appli- 
cation to the severer branches of study, and 
as in some degree incapacitating the posses- 
sor from attaining those habits, and from be- 
stowing that attention, which are necessary 
to success in the details of business, and in 
the engagements of active life. It has been 
common for persons conscious of such ta- 
lents, to look with a sort of disdain on other 
kinds of intellectual excellence, and to con- 
sider themselves as in some degree absolved 
from those rules of prudence by which hum- 
bler minds are restricted. They are too much 
disposed to abandon themselves to their own 
sensations, and to suffer life to pas? away 
without regular exertion or settled purpose. 

But though men of genius are generally 
prone to indolence, with them indolence and 
unhappiness are in a more especial manner 
allied. The unbidden splendours of imagi- 
nation may indeed at times irradiate the 
gloom which inactivity produces; but such 
visions, though bright, are transient, and 
serve to cast the realities of life into deeper 
shade. In bestowing great talents, Nature 
seems very generally to have imposed on the 
possessor the necessity of exertion, if he 
would escape wretchedness. Better for him 



sion of the position to science or natural know- 
ledge. On this occasion 1 may quote tiie follow- 
ing observationsof Sir William Jones, whose own 
example will however far exceed in weight the 
authority of his precepts. " Abul Ola had so 
flourishing a repntation, that several persons of 
uncommon genius were ambitious of learning the 
art of poetry from so able an instructor. His 
most illustrious scholars were Feleki and Khaka- 
ni, who were no less emment for tiieir Persian 
compositions, than for their skill in every branch 
of pure and mixed mathematics, and pariioular- 
ly in astronomy ; a striking proof ihat a sublime 
poet may become master of any kind of learning 
which he'chooses to profess; since a fine imagi- 
nation, a lively wit, an easy and copious stjde, 
cannot possibly obstruct the acquisition of any 
science whatever; but must necessarily assist 
him in bis studies, and shorten his labour." — 
Sir JVilliam Joneses Works, vol. ii. p. 317. • 



than slot!), toils the most painful, or adven- 
tures the most hazardous. Happier to him 
than idleness, were the condition of the pea- 
sant, earning with incessant labour his scanty 
food ; or that of the sailor, though hanging 
on the yard-arm, and wrestling with the hur- 
ricane. 

These observations might be amply illus- 
trated by the biography of men of genius of 
every denomination, and more especially by 
the biography of the poets. Of this last de- 
scription of men, ^o\w seeni to have enjoyed 
the usual portion of happiness that falls to 
the lot of humanity, those excepted who have 
cultivated poetry as an elegant amusement 
in the hours of relaxation from other occu- 
pations, or the small number who have en- 
gaged with success in the greater or more 
arduous attempts of the muse, in which all 
the faculties of the mind have been fully and 
permanently employed. Even taste, virtue, 
and comparative independence, do not seem 
capable of bestowing on men of genius, peace 
and tranquillity, without such occupation as 
may give regular and healthful exercise to 
the faculties of body a.nd mind. The amiable 
Shenstone has left us the records of his im- 
prudence, of his indolence, and of his unhap- 
piness, amidst the shades of the Leasowes;* 
and the virtues, the learning, and the genius 
of Gray, equal to the loftiest attempts of the 
epic muse, failed to procure him in the aca- 
demic bowers of Cambridge, that tranquillity 
and that respect which less fastidiousness of 
taste, and greater constancy and vigour of 
exertion, would have doubtless obtained. 

It is more necessary that men of genius 
should be aware of the importance of self- 
command, and of exertion, because their in- 
dolence is peculiarly exposed, not merely to . 
unhappiness, but to diseases of mind, and to 
errors of conduct, which are generally fatal. 
This interesting subject deserves a particu- 
lar investigation ; but we must content our- 
selves with one or two cursory remarks. 
R,elief is sometimes sought from the melan- 
choly of indolence in practices, which for a 
time sooth and gratify the sensations, but 
which in the end involve the sufferer in 
darker gloom. To command Ihe external cir- 
cumstances by which happiness is affected, 
is not in human power ; but there are various 
substances in nature which operate on the 
system of the nerves, so as to give a fictitious 
gayety to the ideas of imagination, and to 
alter the effect of the external impressions 
which we receive. Opium is chiefly em- 
ployed for this purpose by the disciples of 
Mahomet and the inhabitants of Asia ; but 
alcohol, the principle of intoxication in vinous 
and spirituous liquors, is preferred in Europe, 



* See his Letters, which, as a displaj' of the 
effects of poetical idleness, are highly instructive. 



k 



58 



THE LIFE OF BURNS, 



and is universally used in the Christian 
world* Under the various wounds to which 
indolent sensibility is exposed, and under the 
gloomy apprehensions respecting futurity to 
which it is so often a prey, how strong is the 
temptation to have recourse to an antidote 
by which the pain of these wounds is sus- 
pended, by which the heart is exhilarated, 
visions of happiness are excited in the mind, 
and the forms of external nature clothed 
with new beauty ! 

"Elysium opens round, 
A pleasing frenzy buoys the lighien'd soul, 
And sanguine hopes dispel your fleeting care; 
And what was difficult, and what was dire, 
Yields to your prowess, and superior stars : 
The happiest you of all that e'er were mad. 
Or are, or shall be, could this folly last. 
But soon your heaven is gone ; a heavier gloonri 

Shuts o'er your head 

* * 

Morning comes ; your cares return 

With tenfold rage. An anxious stomach well 
May be endured ; so may the throbbing head : 
But such a dim delirium ; such a dream 
Involves you ; such a dastardly despair 
Unmans your soul, as madd'ning Pentheus felt, 



* There are a great number of other substances, 
which maybe considered under this point of view. 
Tobacco, tea, and coflfee, are of the number. 
These substances essentially differ from each 
other in their qualities; and an inquiry into the 
particular effects of each on the health, morals, 
and happiness of those who use them, would be 
curious and useful. The effects of wine and of 
opium on the temperament of sensibility, the 
Editor intended to have discussed in this place at 
'some length ; but he found the subject tpo exten- 
sive and too professional to be introduced with 
propriety. The difficulty of abandoning any of 
these narcotics (if we may so term them,) when 
inclination is strengthened by habit, is well 
known. Johnson, in his distresses, had expe- 
rienced the cheering but treacherous influence of 
wine, and by a powerful effort, abandoned it. 
He was obliged, however, to use tea as a substi- 
tute, and this was the solace to ivhich he con- 
stantly had recourse under his habitual melan- 
choly. The praises of wine form many of the 
most beautiful lyrics of the poets of Greece and 
Rome, and of modern Europe. Whether opium, 
which produces visions still more ecstatic, has 
been the theme of the eastern poems, I do not 
know. 

Wine is drunk in small quantities at a time, in 
company, where,ybr a time, it promotes harmony 
and social affection Opium is swallowed by the 
Asiatics in full doses at once, and the inebriate 
retires to the solitaiy indulgence of his delirious 
imagination. Hence the wine drinker appears in 
a superior light to the imbiber of opium, a dis- 
tinction which he owes more to the^/brm than to 
the quality of his liquor. 



When, baited round Cithaeron's cruel sides. 
He saw two suns and double Thebes ascend." 

Armstrong's Art of Preserving Health. 

Such are the pleasures and the pains of in- 
toxication, as they occur in the temperament 
of sensibility, described by a genuine poet, 
with a degree of truth and energy which no- 
thing but experience could have dictated.— 
There are, indeed, some individuals of this 
temperament on whom wine produces no 
cheering influence. On some, even in very 
moderate quantities, its effects are painfully 
irritating ; in large draughts it excites dark 
and melancholy ideas : and in draughts still 
larger, the fierceness of insanity itself. Such 
men are happily exempted from a tempta- 
tion, to which experience teaches us the 
finest dispositions often yield, and the in- 
fluence of which, when strengthened by ha- 
bit, it is a humiliating truth, that the most 
powerful minds have not been able to resist. 

It is the more necessary for men of genius 
to be on their guard against the habitual 
use of wine, because it is apt to steal on them 
insensibly; and because the temptation to 
excess usually presents itself to them in their 
social hours, when they are alive only to 
warm and generous emotions, and when pru- 
dence and moderation are often contemned 
as selfishness and timidity. 

It is the more necessary for them to guard 
against excess in the use of wine, because 
on them its effects are, physically and mo- 
rally, in an especial manner injurious. In 
proportion to its stimulating influence on the 
system, (on which the pleasur cable sensa- 
tions depend,) is the debility that ensues; a 
debility that destroys digestion, and termi- 
nates in habitual fever, dropsy, jaundice, 
paralysis, or insanity. As the strength of 
the body decays, the volition fails; in pro- 
portion as the sensations are soothed and 
gratified, the sensibility increases ; and mor- 
bid sensibility is the parent of indolence, be- 
cause, while it impairs the regulating power 
of the mind, it exaggerates all the obstacles 
to exertion. Activity, perseverance, and 
self-command, become more and more diffi- 
cult, and the great purposes of utility, pa- 
triotism, or of honourable ambition, which 
had occupied the imagination, die away in 
fruitless resolutions, or in feeble efforts. 

To apply these observations to the subject 
of our memoirs, would be a useless as well 
as a painful task. It is, indeed, a duty we 
owe to the living, not to allow our admira- 
tion of great genius, or even our pity for its 
unhappy destiny, to conceal or disguise its 
errors. But there are sentiments of respect^ 
and even of tenderness, with which this duty 
sliould be performed ; there is an awful sanc- 
tity which invests Ihe mansions of the dead ; 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



59 



and let those who moralise over the graves 
of their contemporaries, reflect with humility 
on their own errors, nor forget how soon 
they may themselves require the candour 
and the sympathy they are called upon to 
bestow. 



Soon after the death of Burns, tlie follow- 
ing article appeared in the Dumfries Journal, 
from which it was copied into the Edinburgh 
newspapers, and into various other periodical 
publications. It is from the elegant pen of a 
lady alread}'^ alluded to in the course of these 
memoirs,* whose exertions for (he family of 
our bard, in the circles of literature and 
fashion in which she moves, have done her 
so much honour. 

** The attention of the public seems to be 
much occupied at present with the loss it has 
recently sustained in the death of the Cale- 
donian poet, Robert Burns ; a loss calculated 
to be severely felt throughout the literary 
world, as well as lamented in the narrower 
sphere of private friendship. It was not, 
therefore, probable, that such an event should 
be long unattended with the accustomed 
profusion of posthumous anecdotes and me- 
moirs which are usually circulated immedi- 
ately after the death of every rare and cele- 
brated personage : I had, however, conceiv- 
ed no intention of appropriating to myself 
the privilege of criticising Burris's writings 
and character, or of anticipating on the pro- 
vince of a biographer. 

'• Conscious, indeed, of my own inability 
to do justice to such a subject, I should have 
C(mtinued wholly silent, had misrepresenta- 
tion and calumny been less industrious ; but 
a regard to truth, no less than affection for 
the memory of a friend, must now justify 
my offering to (he public a few at least of 
those observations which an intimate acquain- 
tance with Burns, and the frequent oppor- 
tunities I have liad of observintr equally his 
happy qualities and his failings for several 
years past, have enabled me to communicate. 

"It will actually be nn injustice done to 
Burns's character, not only by future gener- 
ations and foreign countries, but even by his 
native Scotland, and perhaps a number of 
his contemporaries, that he is generally talk- 
ed of, and considered, with reference to his 
poetical talents only : for the fact is, even 
allowing his great and original genius its due 
tribute of admiration, that poetry (I appeal 
to all who have had the advantage of being 
personally acquainted with him) was actually 



31 



*See p. 51. 



not his forte. Many others, perhaps, may 
have ascended to prouder heights in the regions 
of Parnassus, but none certainly ever out- 
shone Burns in the charms — the sorcery, I 
would almost call it, of fascinating conversa- 
tion, the .spontaneous eloquence of social ar- 
gument, or the unstudied poignancy of bril- 
liant repartee ; nor was any man, I believe, 
ever gifted with a larger portion of the ' in- 
vida vis animi.' His personal endowments 
were perfectly correspondent to the qualifi- 
cations of his mind ; his form was manly ; his 
action, energy itself; devoid in a great mea- 
sure perhaps of those graces, of that polish, 
acquired only in the refinement of societies 
where in early litle he could have no oppor- 
tunities of mixing ; but where such was the' 
irresistible power of attraction that encircled 
him, though his appearance and manners 
were always peculiar, he never failed to de-' 
light and to excel. His figure seemed to bear 
testimony to his earlier destination and em- 
ployments. It seemed rather moulded by 
nature for the rough exercises of agriculture 
than the gentler cultivation of the Belles Let- 
tres. His features were stamped with the 
hardy character of independence, and the 
firmness of conscious, though not arrogant, 
pre-eminence ; the animated expressions of 
countenance were almost peculiar to himself; 
the rapid lightnings of his eye were always 
the harbingers of some flash of genius, whe- 
ther they darted the fiery glances of insult- 
ed and indignant superiority, or beamed 
with the impassioned sentiment of fei'vent 
and impetuous affections. His voice alone 
could improve upon the magic of his eye : 
sonorous, replete with the finest modulations, 
it alternately captivated the ear with the me- 
lody of poetic numbers, the perspicuity of 
nervous reasoning, or the ardent sallies of 
enthusiastic patriotism. The keenness of sa-^ 
tire was, I am almost at a loss whether to say, 
his forte or his foible ; for though nature had 
endowed him with a portion of the most 
pointed excellence in that dangerous talent, 
he suffered it too often to be the vehicle of 
personal, and sometimes unfounded animosi* 
ties. It was not always that sportiveness of 
humour, that ' unwary pleasantry,' which 
Sterne has depicted with touches so concilia- 
tory, but the darts of ridicule were fiequently 
directed as the caprice of the instant sug- 
gested, or as the altercations of parties and 
of persons happened to kindle the lestkss- 
ncss of his spirit into interest or aversion. 
This, however, was not invariably the case 5 
his vv^it (which is no unusual matter indeed) 
h;td always the start of his judgment, and 
would lead him to the indulgence of raillery 
uniformly acute but often unaccompanied 
with the least desire to wound. The sup' 
pression of an arch and full-pointed bon-mot, 
from the dread of offending its object, the sage 
of Zurich very properly classes as a virtue 
only to be sought for in the Calendar of Samti- 
if so, Burns mivst not be too severely dear 



60 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



with for being rather deficient in it. He paid 
for his mischievous wit as dearly as any one 
could do. ' 'Twas no extravagant arithme- 
tic,' to say of him, as was said of Yorick, 
that 'for every ten jokes he got a hundred 
enemies:' but much allowance will be made 
by a candid mind for the splenetic warmth 
of a spirit whom ' distress had spited with 
the world, and which unbounded in its intel- 
lectual sallies and pursuits, continually ex- 
perienced the curbs imposed by the wayward- 
ness of his fortune. The vivacity of his wishes 
and temper was indeed checked by almost 
habitual disappointments, which sat heavy on 
a heart that acknowledged the ruling passion 
of independence, without ever having been 
placed beyond the grasp of penury. His 
soul was never languid or inactive, and his 
genius was extinguished only with the last 
spark of retreating life. His passions render- 
ed hiu), according as they disclosed them- 
selves in affection or antipathy, an object of 
enthusiastic attachment, or of decided en- 
mity ; for he possessed none of that negative 
insipidity of character, whose love might be 
regarded with indifference, or whose resent- 
ment could be considered with contempt. In 
this, it should seem, the temper of his associ- 
ates took the tincture from his own ; for he 
acknowledged in the universe but two classes 
of objects, those of adoration the most fer- 
vent, or of aversion the most uncontrollable ; 
and it has been frequently are])roach to him, 
that, unsusceptible of indifference, often 
hating where he ought only to have despised, 
he alternately opened his heart and poured 
forth the treasures of his \inderstanding to 
such as were incapable of appreciating the 
homage ; and elevated to the privileges of 
an adversary some who were unqualified 
in all respects for the honour of a contest so 
distinguished. 

" It is said that the celebrated Dr. Johnson 
professed to 'love a good hater,' — a tempera- 
ment that would have singularly adapted him 
to cherish a prepossession in favour of our 
bard, who perhaps fell but little short even of 
the surly doctor in this qualification, as long 
as the disposition to ill-will continued ; but 
the warmth of his passions was fortunately 
corrected by their versatility. He was sel- 
dom, indeed never, implacable in his resent- 
ments, and sometimes, it has been alleged, 
not inviolably faithful in his engagements of 
friendship. Much, indeed, has been said 
about his inconstancy and caprice ; but I am 
inclined to believe that they originated less 
in a levity of sentiment, than from an ex- 
treme impetuosity of feeling, which rendered 
him prompt to take umbrage ; and his sensa- 
tions of pique, where he fancied he had dis- 
covered the traces of neglect, scorn, or un- 
kindness, took their measure of asperity from 
the overflowings of the opposite sentiment 
which preceded them, and which seldom [ 
failed to regain its ascendency in his bosom 



on the return of calmer reflection. He was 
candid and manly in the avowal of his 
errors, and his avowal was a reparation. His 
native ^erte never forsaking him for a mo- 
ment, the value of a frank acknowledgment 
was enhanced tenfold towards a generous 
mind, from its never being attended with 
servility. His mind, organized only for the 
stronger and more acute operations of the 
passions, was impracticable to the efforts of 
superciliousness that would have depressed 
it into humility, and equally superior to the 
encroachments of venal suggestions that 
might have led him into the mazes of hy- 
pocrisy. 

" It has been observed, that he was far 
from averse to the incense of flattery, and 
could receive it tempered with less delicacy 
than might have been expected, as he sel- 
dom transgressed extravagantly in that way 
himself; where he paid a compliment, it 
might, indeed, claim the power of intoxica- 
tion, as approbation from him was always 
an honest tribute from the warmth and sin- 
cerity of his heart. It has been sometimes 
represented by those who it should seem had 
a- view to depreciate, though they could not 
hope wholly to obscure that native brillian- 
cy, which the powers of this extraordinary 
man had invariably bestowed on every thing 
that came from his lips or pen, that the his- 
tory of the Ayrshire plough-boy was an in- 
genious fiction, fabricated for the purposes of 
obtaining the interests of the great, and enhan- 
cing the merits of what required no foil. The 
Cotters Saturday Night, Tavi o^Shanter, and 
The Mountain Daisy, besides a number of later 
productions, where the maturity of his ge- 
nius will be readily traced, and which will be 
given to the public as soon as his friends have 
collected and arranged them, speak sufficient- 
ly for themselves ; and had they fallen from 
a hand more dignified in the ranks of socie- 
ty than that of a peasant, they had, perhaps, 
bestowed as unusual a grace there, as even 
in the humbler shade of rustic inspiration 
from whence they really sprung. 

" To the obscure scene of Burns's educa- 
tion, and to the laborious, though honourable 
station of rural industry, in which his parent- 
age enrolled him, almost every inhabitant 
of the south of Scotland can give testimony. 
His only surviving brother, Gilbert Burns, 
now guides the ploughshare of his forefa- 
thers in Ayrshire, at a farm near Maucline ;* 
and our poet's eldest son (a lad of nine years 
of age, whose early dispositions already prove 
him to be in some measure the inheritor of 
his father's talents as well as indigence) has 



* This very respectable and very superior man 
is now removed to Dumfriesshire. He rents 
lands on the estate of Closeburn, and is a tenant 
of tiie venerable Dr. Monteith, (1800.) E. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



61 



been destined by his family to the humble 
employment of the loom.* 

" That Burns had received no classical 
education, and was acquainted with the 
Greek and Roman authors only through the 
medium of translations, is a fact of which 
all who were in the habits of conversing 
with him might readily be convinced. I 
have, indeed, seldom observed him to be at 
a loss in conversation, unless where the dead 
languages and their writers have been the 
subjects of discussion. When I have press- 
ed him to tell me why he never applied 
himself to acquire the Latin, in particular, a 
language which his happy memory would 
have so seon enabled hi.n to be master of, he 
used only to reply with a smile, that he had 
already learned all the Latin he desired to 
know, and that was ovinia vine it amor ; a 
sentence, that from his writings and most fa- 
vourite pursuits, it should undoubtedly seem 
that he was most thoroughly versed in : but 
I really believe his classic erudition extend- 
ed little, if any, further. 

" The penchant Burns had uniformly ac- 
knowledged for the festive pleasures of the 
table, and towards the fairer and softer objects 
of nature's creation, has been the rallying 
point from whence the attacks of his censors 
have been uniformly directed : and to these, 
it must be confessed, he showed himself no 
stoic. His poetical pieces blend with alter- 
nate happiness of description, the frolic spirit 
of the flowing bowl, or melt the heart to the 
tender and impassioned sentiments in which 
beauty always taught him to pour forth his 
own. But who would wish to reprove the 
feelings he has consecrated with such lively 
touches of nature .' And where is the rugged 
moralist who will persuade us so far to ' chill 
the genial current of the soul,' as to regret 
that Ovid ever celebrated his Corinna, or 
that Anacreon sung beneath his vine .'' 

" I will not, however , undertake to be the 
apologist of the irregularities even of a man 
of genius, though 1 believe it is as certain 
that genius never was free from irregulari- 
ties, as that their absolution may, in a great 
measure, be justly claimed, since it is per- 
fectly evident that the world had continued 
very stationary in its intellectual acquire- 
ments, had it never given birth to any but 
men of plain sense. Evenness of conduct, 
and a due regard to the decorums of the world, 
have been so rarely seen to move hand in 
hand wiih genius, tliat some have gone as 
far as to say, though there I cannot wholly 
acquiesce, that they are even incompatible, 
besides the frailties that cast their shade over 
the splendour of superior merit, are more 



* This destination is now altered. (1800.) E. 



conspicuously glaring than where they are 
the attendants of mere mediocrity. It is 
only on the gem we are disturbed to see the 
dust ; the pebble may be soiled, and we 
never regard it. The eccentric intuitions of 
genius too often yield the soul to the wild ef- 
fervescence of desires, always unbounded, 
and sometimes equally dangerous to the re- 
pose of others as fatal to its own. No won- 
der, then, if virtue herself be sometimes lost 
in the blaze of kindling animation, or that 
the calm monitions of reason are not invari- 
ably found sufficient to fetter an imagination, 
which scorns the narrow limits and restric- 
tions that would chain it to the level of or- 
dinary minds. The child of nature, the child 
of sensibility, unschooled in the rigid pre- 
cepts of philosophy, too often unable to con- 
trol the passions which proved a source of fre- 
quent errors and misfortunes to him. Burns 
made his own artless apology in language 
more impressive than all the argumentatory 
vindications in the world could do, in one of 
his own poems, where he delineates the gra- 
dual expansion of his mind to the lessons of 
the ' tutelary muse,' who concludes an address 
to her pupil, almost unique for simplicity and 
beautiful poetry, with these lines : 

♦' I saw thy pulse's madd'ning play 
Wild send thee pleasure devious way; 
Misled by fancy's meteor ray 

By passion driven ; 
But yet the light that led astray 

Was light from heaven^^ 

" I have already transgressed beyond the 
bounds I had proposed to myself, on first 
committing this sketch to paper, which com- 
prehends what at least I have been led to 
deem the leading features of Burns's mind 
and character : a literary critique I do not 
aim at : mine is wholly fulfilled, if in these 
pages I have been able to delineate any of 
those strong traits, that distinguished him, 
of those talents wliich raised him from the 
plough, where he passed the bleak morning 
of his life, weaving his rude wreaths of 
poesy with the wild field-flowers that sprang 
around his cottage, to that enviable emi- 
nence of literary fame, where Scotland will 
long cherish his memory with delight and 
gratitude ; and proudly remember, that be- 
neath her cold sky a genius was ripened, 
withoui care or culture, that would have 
done honour to climes more favourable to 
those luxuriances — that warmth of colour- 
ing and fancy in which he so eminently ex- 
celled. 

" From several paragraphs I have noticed 
in the public prints, ever since the idea of 
sending this sketch to some one of them was 



f Vide the Vision— Duan 2d. 



62 



THE IJFE OF BURNS. 



formed, I find private animosities have not 
vet subsided, and that envy has not exhaust- 
ed all her shafts. I still trust, however, that 
honest fame will be permanently aliixed to 
Burns's character, which I think it will be 
found he has merited by ihe candid and im- 
partial among his countrymen. And where 
a recollection of the imprudence that sullied 
his brighter qualifications interpose, let the 
imperfections of all human excellence be re- 
membered at the same time, leaving those 
inconsistencies, which alternately exalted his 
iiature into the soraph, and sunk it again into 
the man, to the tribunal which alone can in- 
vestigate the labyrinths of the human heart — 

< Where they alike in trembling hope repose^ 
— The bosofti of his father and his god.'' 

Gray's Ei.egy. 
!-^ Annandale, Aug. 7, 1696." 

After this account of the life and per- 
sonal character of Burns, it maybe expected 
that some inquiry should be made into his li- 
terary merits. It will not, however, be ne- 
cessary to enter very minutely into this in- 
vestigation, If fiction be, as some suppose, 
the soul of poetry, no one had ever less pre- 
tensions to the name of poet than Burns. 
Though he has displayed great powers of 
imagination, yet the subjects on which he 
has written, are seldom, if ever, imaginary ; 
his poems, as well as his letters, may be con- 
sidered as the effusions of his sensibility, 
and the transcript of his own musings on the 
real incidents of his humble life. If we 
add, that they also contain most happy de- 
lineations of the characters, manners^ and 
scenery that presented themselves to his ob- 
servation, we shall include almost all the 
subjects of his muse. His writings may, 
therefore, be regarded as affording a great 
part of the data on which our account of his 
personal character has been founded ; and 
most of the observations we have applied to 
the man, are applicable, with little vaiiation, 
to the poet. 

The impression of his birth, and of his 
original station in life, was not more evident 
on his form and manners, than on his poeti- 
cal productions. The incidents which form 
the subjects of his poems, though some of 
them highly interesting, and susceptible of 
poetical imagery, are incidents in the life of 
a peasant who takes no pains to disguise the 
lowliness of his condition, or to throw into 
shade the circumstances attending it, which 
more feeble or more artificial minds would 
have endeavoured to conceal. The same 
rudeness and inattention appears in the for- 
mation of his rhymes, which are frequently 
incorrect, while the measure in which many 
of the poems are written, has little of the 
pomp or harmony of modern versification, 
and. is, ind^yd to an English ear, strange 



and uncouth. The greater part of his earlie 
poems are written in the dialect of his coun 
try, wiiich is obscure, if not unintelligible to 
Englishmen ; and which, though it still ad- 
heres more or less to the speech of almost 
every Scotchman, all the polite and the am- 
bitious are now endeavouring to banish from 
their tongues as well as th ir writings. The 
use of it in composition naturally therefore 
calls up ideas of vulgarity in the mind. These 
singularities are increased by the character 
of the poet, who delights to express himself 
with a simplicity that approaches to naked- 
ness, and with an unmeasured energy that 
often i'lirms delicacy, and sometimes offends 
taste. Hence, in approaching him, the first 
impression is perhaps repulsive : there is an 
air of coarseness about him which is difficultly 
reconciled with our established notions of 
poetical excellence. 

As the reader however becomes better ac- 
quainted with the poet, the effects of his pe- 
culiarities lessen He perceives in his poems, 
oven on the lowest subjects, expressions of 
sentiment and delineations of manners, which 
are highly interesting. The scenery he de- 
scribes is evidentljr taken from real life ; the 
characters he introduces, and the incidents 
he relates, have the impression of nature 
and truth. His humour, though wild and 
unbridled, is irresistibly amusing, and is some- 
times heightened in its effects by the intro- 
; duction of emotions of tenderness, with which 
genuine humour so happily unites. Nor is this 
the extent of his power. The reader, as he 
examines farther, discovers that the poet is 
not coafined to the descriptive, the humorous^ 
or the pathetic ; he is found, as occasion offers, 
to rise with ease into the terrible and the sub- 
lime. Every where ho appears devoid of arti- 
fice, performing what he attempts with little 
apparent effort ; and impressing on the off- 
spring of his fancy the stamp of his under- 
stanling. The reader, capable of forming a 
just estimate of poetical talents, discovers in 
these circumstances marks of uncommon 
genius, and is willing to investigate more 
minutely its nature and its claims to origin- 
ality. This last point we shall examine first. 

That Burns had not the advantages of a clas- 
sical education, or of any degree f»f acquaint- 
ance with the Gree!i: or Roman writers in their 
original dress, has appeared in the history of 
his life He acquired, indeed, some know- 
ledge of the French language, but it does 
not appear that ho was ever much conver- 
sant in French literature, nor is there any evi- 
dence of his iiaving derived any of his po- 
etical stores from that source. With the 
English classics he became well acquainted 
in the course ofhis life, and the effects of this 
acquamtance are observable in his latter pro- 
ductions ; but the character and style of his 
poetry were formed very early, and the mo- 
del which he followed, in as far as he can be 



THE LIFE OP BURIN J^. 



63 



said to have had one, is to be sought for in the 
works of the poets who have written in the 
Scottish dialect — in the works of such of 
them more especially as are familiar to the 
peasantry of Scotland. Some observations 
on these may form a proper introduction to a 
more particular examination of the poetry of 
Burns. The studies of the editor in this di- 
rection are inieed very recent and very im- 
perfect. It would have been imprudent for him 
to have entered on thi<5 subj^^-ct at all, but for 
the kindness of Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, 
whose assistance he is proud to acknuvvlcdge, 
and to whom the read r must ascribe what- 
ever is of any value in the following imper- 
fect sketch of literary compositions in the 
Scottish idiom. 

It is a circumstance not a little curious, and 
which does not seem to be satisfactorily ex- 
plained, that in the thirteenth century, the 
language of the two British nations, if at all 
different, differed only in the dialect, the Gae- 
lic in the one, like the Welch and Armoricin 
the other, being confined to the mountainous 
districts.* The English under the Edwards, 
and the Scots under Wallace and Bruce, spoke 
the same language. We may observe, also, 
that in Scotland the history of poetry ascends 
to a period nearly as remote as in England. 
Birbour, and Blind Harry, Janies the First, 
Dunbar, Douglas, and Lindsay, who lived in 
the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth cen- 
turies, were coeval with the fathers of poetry 
in England : and in the opinion of Mr. Whar- 
ton, not inferior to them in genius or in compo- 
sition. Though the langu ige of the two coun- 
tries gradually deviated from each other du- 
ring this period, yet the diff> rence on the whole 
was not considerable ; not perhaps greater 
than between the different dialects of the dif- 
ferent parts of England in our own time. 

At the death of James the Fifth, in 1542, 
the language of Scotland was in a flourish mg 
condition, wanting only writers in prose 
equal to those in verse. Two circumstan- 
ces, propitious on the whole, operated to pre- 
vent this. The first was the passion of the 
Scots for composition in Latin , and the se- 
cond, the accessio'i of James the Sixth to the 
English thr.me It ma}' easily be imagined, 
that if Buchanan had devoted his admirable 
talents, even in part, to the cultivations of 
his native tongue, as was done by the revivers 
of letters in Italy, he would have left compo- 
sitions in that language which might have in- 
cited other men of genms to have followed 
his example,t and given duration to the lan- 
guage itself. The union of the two crowns 
in the person of James, overthrew all reason- 



* Historical Essay on Scottish Song, p. 20, by 
M. Ritson. 

f e. g-. The Authors of the Delicioe. Poetarum 
Scotorum, S^c. 



able expectation of this kind. That monarch, 
seated on the English throne, would no longer 
suffer himself to be addressed in the rude 
dialect in which the Scottish clergy had so 
often insulted his dignily. He encouraged 
Latin or English only,bothof whichhe prided 
himself on writing with purity, though he 
himself never could acquire the English pro- 
nunciation, but sp' ike with a Scottish idiom and 
intonation to the last. — Scotsmen of talents 
declined writing in their native language, 
which ihey knew was not acceptable to their 
learned and pedantic monarch ; and at a time 
when national prejudice and enmity prevail- 
ed to a great degree, they disdained to study 
the niceties of the English tongue, though of 
so much easier acquisition than a dead lan- 
guage. Lord Stirling and Drummond of 
Hawthornden, the only Scotsmen who wrote 
poetry in those times, were exceptions. They 
studied the language of England, and com- 
posed in it with precision and elegance. 
They were however the last of their country- 
men who deserved to be considered as poets 
in that century. The muses of Scotland 
sunk into silence, and did not again raise their 
voices for a period of eighty years. 

To what causes are we to attribute this ex- 
treme depress! n among a people compara- 
tively learned, enterprising, and ingenious .'' 
Shall we impute it to the fanaticism of the 
covenanters, or to the tyranny of the house of 
Stuart, after their restoration to the throne? 
Dou 'tless these causes operated, but they 
seem unequal to account for the effect. In 
England, similar distractions and oppression 
took place, yet poetry flourished there in a 
remarkable degree. During this period, Cow- 
ley, and Waller, and Dryden sung, and Mil- 
ton raised his strain of unparalleled grandeur. 
To the causes already mentioned, another 
must be added, in accounting for the torpor 
of Scottish literature — the want of a p'-oper 
vehicle for men of genius to employ. The 
civil wars had frightened away the Latin 
Muses, and no standard had been established 
of the Scottish tongue, which was deviating 
still farther from the pure English idiom. 

The revival of literature in Scotland may be 
dated from the establishment of the union, or 
rather from the extinction of the rebellion 
in 1715. The nations being finally incorpo- 
rated, it was clearly seen that their tongues 
must in the end incorporate also ; or rather 
indeed that the Scottish language must de- 
generate into a provincial idiom, to be avoided 
by those who would aim at distinction in 
letters, or rise to eminence in the united 
legislature. 

Soon after this a band of men of genius ap- 
peared, who studied the English classics, and 
imitated their beauties in the same manner as 
they studied the classics of Greece and Rome. 
They had admirable models of compcsition 



64 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



lately presented tothembythe writers of the 
rei^n of Queen Anne ; particularly in the pe- 
riodi<;al papers published by Steele, Addison, 
and the reassociated friends, which circulated 
widely through Scotland, and diffused every 
where a taste for purity of style and senti- 
ment, and for critical disquisition. At length 
the Scottish writers succeeded in English 
composition, and union was formed of the 
literary talents, as well as of the legislatures 
of the two nations. On this occasion the 
poets took the lead. While Henry Home,* 
Dr. Wallace, and their learned as-ociates, 
were only laying in their intellectual stores, 
and studying to clear themselves of their 
Scottish idioms, Tliomson, Mallet, and Ham- 
ilton of Bangour,had made their appearance 
before the public ; and been enrolled on the 
list of English poets. The writers in prose 
followed, a numerous and powerful band, and 
poured their ample stores into the general 
stream of British literature. Scotland possess- 
ed her four universities before the accession 
of James to the English throne, finmediately 
before the union, she acquired her paro- 
chial schools. These establishments com- 
bining happily together, made the elements 
of knowledge of easy acquisition, and pre- 
sented a direct path, by which the ardent 
student might be carried along into the re- 
cesses of science or learning. As civil broils 
ceased, and faction and prejudice gradually 
died away, a wider field was opened to lite- 
rary ambition, and the influence of the Scot- 
tish institutions for instruction, on the pro- 
ductions of the press, became more and more 
apparent. 

It seems indeed probable, that the establish- 
ment of the parochial schools produced ef- 
fects on the rural muse of Scotland also, 
which have not hitherto been suspected, and 
which, though less splendid in their nature, 
are not however to be regarded as trivial, 
whether we consider the happiness or the 
morals of the people. 

There is some reason to believe, that the 
original inhabitants of the British isles pos- 
sessed a peculiar and interesting species of 
music, which being banished from the plains 
by the successive invasions of the Saxons, 
Danes, and Normans, was preserved with the 
native race, in the wilds of Ireland and in the 
mountainsof Scotland and Wales. The Irish, 
the Scottish, and the Welsh music differ, in- 
deed, from each other, but the difference may 
be considered as in dialect only, and pro- 
bably produced by the influence of time, and 
like the different dialects of their common 
language. If this conjecture be true, the 
Scottish music must be more immediately of 
a Highland origin, and the Lowland tunes, 
though now of a character somewhat distinct, 



* Lord Kaimes. 



must have descended from the mountains in 
remote ages. Whatever credit may be given 
to conjectures, evidently involved in great 
uncertainty, there can be no doubt that the 
Scottish peasantry have been long in pos- 
session of a number of songs and ballads com- 
posed in their native dialect, and sung to 
their native music. The subjects of these 
compositions were such as most interested 
the simple inhabitants, and in the succession 
of time varied probably as the condition of 
society varied. During the separation and 
the hostility of the two nations, these songs 
and ballads, as far as our imperfect documents 
enable us to judge, were chiefly warlike ; 
such as the Huntis of Cheviot, and the Battle 
of Harlow. After the union of the two 
crowns, when a certain degree of peace and 
of tranquillity took place, the rural muse of 
Scotland breathed in softer accents. "In the 
want o^real evidence respecting the history 
of our songs," says Mr. Ramsay of Ochter- 
tyre, " recourse may be had to conjecture. 
One would be disposed to think that the most 
beautiful of the Scottish tunes were clothed 
with new words after the union of the crowns. 
The inhabitants of the borders, who had for- 
merly been warriors from choice, and hus- 
bandmen from necessity, either quitted the 
country, or were transformed into real shep- 
herds, easy in their circumstances, and satis- 
fied with their lot. Some sparks of that spirit 
of chivalry for which they are celebrated by 
Froissart, remained, sufficient to inspire ele- 
vation of sentiment and gallantry towards the 
fair sex. The familiarity and kindness which 
had long subsisted between the gentry and 
the pe »santry could not all at once be ob- 
literated, and this connexion tended to sweet- 
en rural life. In this state of innocence, 
ease, and tranquillity of mind, the love of po- 
etry and music would still maintain its 
ground, though it would naturally assume a 
form congenial to the more peaceful state of 
society. The minstrels, whose metrical tales 
used once to rouse the borderers like the 
trumpet's sound, had been by an order of the 
legislature (in 1579,) classed with rogues and 
vagabonds, and attempted to be suppressed. 
Knox and his disciples influenced the Scot- 
tish parliament, but contend<id in vain with 
her rural muse. Amidst our Arcadian vales, 
probably on the banks of the Tweed, or some 
of its tributary streams, one or more original 
geniuses may have arisen, who were destin- 
ed to give a new turn to the taste of their 
countrymen. They would see that the events 
and pursuits which checker private life were 
the proper subjects for popular poetry. Love, 
which had formerly held a divided sway with 
glory and ambition, became now the master 
passion of the soul. To portray in lively and 
delicate colours, though with a hasty hand, the 
hopes and fears that agitate the breast of the 
love-sick swain or forlorn maiden, affords 
ample scope to the rural poet. Love- Songs, 
of which TibuUus himself would not have 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



65 



been ashamed, might be composed by an un- 
educated rustic with a slight tincture of let- 
ters; or if in these songs, the character of the 
rustic be sometimes assumed, the truth of 
character, and the language of nature, are 
preserved. With unaffected simplicity and 
tenderness, topics are urged most likely to 
soften the heart of a cruel and coy mistress, 
or to regain a fickle lover. Even in such as 
are of a melancholy cast, a ray of hope breaks 
through and dispels ihe deep and settled 
gloom which characterizes the sweetest of 
the Highland luinags or vocal airs. Nor 
are these songs all plaintive ; many of them 
are lively and humorous, and some appear to 
us coarse and indelicate. They seem, how- 
ever, genuine descriptions of the manners of 
an energetic and sequestered people in their 
hours of mirth and festivity, though in their 
portraits some objects are brought into open 
view, which more fastidious painters would 
have thrown into shade. 

" As those rural poets sung for amusement, 
not for gain, their effusions seldom exceeded 
a love-song, or a ballad of satire or humour, 
which, like the works of the elder minstrels, 
were seldom committed to writing, but trea- 
sured up m the memory of their friends and 
neighbours. Neither known to the learned, 
nor patronised by the great, these rustic 
bards lived and died in obscurity ; and by a 
strange fatality, their story, and even their 
very names, have been forgotten.* When 
proper models for pastoral songs were pro- 
duced, there would be no want of imitators. 
To succeed in this species of composition, 
soundness of understanding, and sensibility 
of heart were more requisite than flights of 
imagination or pomp of numbers. Great 
changes have certainly taken place in Scot- 
tish song-writing, though we cannot trace 
the steps of this change ; and few of the 
pieces admired in Queen Mary's time are now 
to be discovered in modern collections. It is 
possible, though not probable, that the music 
may have remained nearly the same, though 
the words to the tunes were entirely new- 
modelled, "t 

These conjectures are highly ingenious 
It cannot, however, be presumed, that the 
state of ease and tranquillity described by 
Mr. Ramsay, took place among the Scottish 
peasantry immediately on the unioti of the 

* In the Pepys Collection, there are a few Scot- 
tish songs of the last century, but the names of 
the authors are not preserved. 

f Extract of a letter from Mr. Ramsay of Och- 
tertyre to the Editor, Sept. 11,1799. — In the i ee 
vol. ii. is a communication to Mr. Ramsay, un- 
der the signature of J. Runcole, which enters 
into this subject somewhat more ot large. In 
that paper he gives his reasons for questioning 
the antiquity of many of the most celebrated 
Scottish songs. 



crowns, or indeed during the greater part of 
the seventeenth century. The Scottish na- 
tion, through all its ranks, was deeply agi- 
tated by the civil wars, and the religious per- 
secutions which succeeded each other in that 
disastrous period; it was not till after the 
revolution in 16H8, and the subsequent estab- 
lishment of their beloved form of church go- 
vernment, that the peasantry of the Lowlands 
enjoyed comparative repose ; and it is since 
that period, that a great number of the most 
admired Scottish songs have been produced, 
though the tunes to which they are sung are 
in general of much greater antiquity. It is 
not unreasonable to suppose that the (Hace 
and security derived from the K evolution and 
the Union, produced a favourable change on 
the rustic poetry of Scotland ; and it can 
scarcely be doubted, that the institution of 
parish-schools in 1696, by which a certain 
degree of instruction was diffused universally 
among the peasantry, contributed to this 
happy effect. 

Soon after this appeared Allan Ramsay, 
the Scottish Theocritus. He was born on 
the high mountains that divide Clydesdale 
and Annandale in a small hamlet by the 
banks of Glangonar, a stream which de- 
scends into the Clyde. The ruins of this 
hamlet are still shown to the inquiring tra- 
veller.* He was the son of a peasant, and 
probably received such instruction as his 
parish-school bestowed, and the poverty of 
his parents admitted. t Ramsay made his ap- 
pearance in Edinburgh in the beginning of 
the present century, in the humble character 
of an apprentice to a barber, or peruke-ma- 
ker ; he was then fourteen or fifteen years 
of age. By degrees he acquired notice for 
his social disposition, and his talent for the 
composition of verses in the Scottish idiom '^ 
and, changing his profession for that of a 
bookseller, he became intimate with many 
of the literary, as well as of the gay and 
fashionable characters of histime.| Having 

* See Campbell's History of Poetry in Scotland, 
p. 185. 

f The father of Ramsay was, it is said, a work- 
man in the lead-mines of the Earl of Hopeton, 
at Lead-hills. The workmen in those mines 
at present are of a very superior character to- 
miners in general. They have only six hours 
of labour in the day, and have time for reading. 
They have a common library, supported by con- 
tribution, containing several thousand volumes. 
When this was instituted I have not learned. 
These miners are said to be of a very sober and 
moral character : Allen Ramsay, when very 
young, is supposed to have been a washer of ore 
in these mines, 

t " He was coeval with Joseph Mitchell, and 
his club of small wits, who about 1719, publish- 
ed a very poor miscellany, to which Dr. Young, 
the author of the JViglit Thoughts prefixed a 
copy of verses." Extract of a letter from Mr, 
Ramsay of Ochtertyre to the Editor. 



66 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



publislied a volume of poems of his own 
in 1721, which was favourably received, he 
undertook to make a collection of ancient 
Scottish poems, under the title of the Ever- 
Grern, and was afterwards encouraged to 
present to the world a collection of Scottish 
aonors. " From what sources he procured ; 
them," says Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, 
" whether from tradition or raanuscriptj is , 
uncertain. As in the Ever- Green he made 
some rash attempts to improve on the origin- [ 
als of his ancient poems, he probably used ! 
still greater freedom with the songs and bal- 
lads. The truth cannot, however, be known 
on Ais point, till manuscripts of the songs 
printed by him, more ancient than the pre- 
sent century, shall be produced ; or access be 
obtained to his own papers, if they are still in 
existence. To several tunes which either 
wanted words, or had words that v/ere impro- 
per or imperfect, he, or his friends, adapted 
verses worthy of the melodies they accom- 
panied, worthy indeed of the golden age. 
These verses were perfectly intelligible to 
every rustic, yet justly admired by persons 
of taste, who regarded them as the genuine 
offspring of the pastoral muse. In some 
respects Ramsay had advantages not possess- 
ed by poets writing in the Scottish dialect 
in our days. Sonofs in the dialect of Cum- 
berland or Lancashire could never be popu- 
lar, because these dialects have never been 
spoken by persons of fashion. But till the 
middle of the present ceiitury, every Scots- 
man, from Ihe peer to the peasant, spoke a 
truly Doric language. It is true the English 
moralists and poets were by tliis time read 
be every person of condition, and consider- 
ed as the standards for polite composition. 
But, as national prejudices were still strong, 
the busy, the learned, the gay, and the fair, 
continued to speak their native dialect, and 
that with an elegance and poignancy, of 
which Scotsmen of the present day can have 
no just notion. I am old enough to have 
conversed with Mr. Spittal, of Leuchat, a 
scholar and a man of fashion, who survived all 
the members of the Union Parliament, in 
which he had a seat. H is pronmiciation and 
phraseology differed as much from the com- 
mon dialect, as the language of St. James's 
from that of Thames-street. Had we re- 
tained a court and parliament of our own, 
the tongues of the two sister-kingdoms would 
indeed have differed like the Castilian and 
Portuguese; but each would have had its 
own classics, not in a single branch, but in 
the whole circle of literature. 

" Ramsay associated with the men of wit 
and fashion of his day, and several of them 
attempted to write poetry in his manner. 
Persons too idle or too dissipated to think of 
compositions that required much exertion, 
succeeded very happily in making tender 
sonnets to favourite tunes in compliment to 



their mistresses, and, transforming tlieni' 
selves into impassioned shepherds, caught 
the language of the characters they assum- 
ed. Thus, about the year 1731, Robert 
Crawford of Auchinames, wrote the modern 
song of Tweed Side* which has been so 
much admired. In 1743, Sir Gilbert Elliot, 
the first of our lawyers who both spoke and 
wrote English elegantly, composed, in the cha- 
racter of a love-sick swain, a beautiful song, 
beginning, My sheep I neglected, I lost my 
skeep-hoolCf on the marriage of his mistress, 
Miss Forbes, witli Ronald Crawford. And 
about twelve years afterwards, the sister of 
Sir Gilbert wrote the ancient words to the 
tune of the Flowers of the Forest.i and 
supposed to alludo to the battle of Flow- 
den. In spite of the dou. le rhyme, it is a 
sweet, and though in some parts allegori- 
cal, a natural expression of national sorrow. 
The more modern words to the same tune, 
beginning, I have seen the smiling of Jortune 
beguiling, were written long before by Mrs. 
Cockburn, a woman of great wit, who out- 
lived all the first group of literati of the pre- 
sent century, all of whom were very fond of 
her. I was deliglited with her company, 
though, when I saw her, she was very old. 
Much did she know that is now lost." 

In addition to these instances of Scottish 
songs produced in the earlier part of the 
present, century, may be mentioned the bal- 
lad of Hurdihnute, by Lady Wardlaw ; the 
ballad of Wiiliam and Margaret ; and the 
song entitled The Birks of Endermay, by 
Mallet ; the love-song, beginning, For ever. 
Fortune, wilt thou prove, produced by the 
youthful muse of Thomson ; and the exqui- 
site pathetic balhid, The Braes of Yarrow, 
by Hamilton of Bangour. On the revival of 
letters in Scotland, subsequent to the Union, 
a very general taste seems to have prevailed 
for the national songs and music. " For many 
years," says Mr. Ramsay, " the singing of 
songs was the great delight of the higher 
and middle order of the people, as well as of 
the peasantry : and though a taste for Italian 
music has interfered with this amusement, 
it is still vary prevalent. Between forty and 
fifty years ago, the common people were not 
only exceedingly fond of songs and ballads, 
but of metrical history. Often have I, in 
my cheerful morn of youth, listened to them 
with deJight, when reading or reciting the 
exploits of Wallace and Bruce against the 
Southrons. Lord Hailes was wont to call 
Blind Harry their Bible, he being their great 
favourite next the Scriptures. VVhen, there- 
fore, one in the vale of life felt the first emo- 
tions of genius, he wanted not models 5Mi^e- 

* Beginning, " What beauties does Flora dis- 
close I" 

t Beginning, " I have heard a lilting at on.' 
ewes milking." 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



67 



nens. But though the seeds of poetry were 
scattered with a plentiful hand among the 
Scottish peasantry, the product was probably 
like that of pears and apples — of a thousand 
that spring up, nine hundred and fifty are so 
bad as to set the teeth on edge ; forty-five or 
more are passable and useful ; and the rest of 
an exquisite flavour. Allen Ramsey and 
Burns are wildings of this last description. 
They had the example of the elder Scottish 
poets ; they were not without the aid of the 
best English writers ; and what was of still 
more importance, they were no strangers to 
the book of nature, and the book of God." 

From this general view, it is apparent that 
Allan Ramsay may be considered as in a 
great measure the reviver of the rural poetry 
of his countrj'. His collection of ancient 
Scottish poems, under the name of The 
£t'er- Green, his collection of Scottish songs, 
and his own poems, the principal of which is 
the Gentle Shepherd, have been universally 
read among the peasantry of his country, 
and have in some degree superseded the ad- 
ventures of Bruce and Wallace, as recorded 
by Barbour and Blind Harry. Burns was 
well acquainted with all these. He had also 
before him the poems of Fergusson in the 
Scottish dialect, which have been produced 
in our own times, and of which it will be 
necessary to give a short account. 

Fergusson was born of parents who had it 
in their power to procure him a liberal edu- 
cation, a circumstance, however, which in 
Scotland implies no very high rank in so- 
ciety. From a well written and apparently 
authentic account of his life,* we learn that 
he spent six years at the schools of Edin- 
burgh and Dundee, and several years at the 
universities of Edinburgh and St. Andrews. 
It appears that he was at one time destined 
for the Scottish church ; but as he advanced 
towards manhood, he renounced that inten- 
tion, and at Edinburgh entered the office of 
a writer to the signet, a title which desig- 
nates a separate and higher order of Scottish 
attorneys. Fergusson had sensibility of 
miad, a warm and generous heart, and 
talents for society of the most attractive 
kind. To such a man no situation could be 
more dangerous than that in which he was 
placed. The excesses into which he was 
led, impaired his feeble constitution, and he 
sunk under them in the month of October, 
1774, in his 23d or 24th year. Burns was 
not acquainted with the poems of this youth- 
ful genius when he himself began to write 
poetry ; and when he first saw them he had 
renounced the muses. But while he resided 



in the town of Irvine, meeting witli Fer- 
gMssori's Scottish PoemSy he informs us that 
he " strung his lyre anew with emulating 
vigour."* Touched by the sympathy origi- 
nating in kindred genius, and in the fore- 
bodings of similar fortune. Burns regarded 
Fergusson with a partial and an affectionate 
admiration. Over his grave he erected a 
monument, as has already been mentioned ; 
and his poems h3 has, in several instances, 
made the subjects of his imitation. 

From this account of the Scottish poems 
known to Burns, those who are acquainted 
with them will see that they are chiefly hu- 
morous or pathetic ; and under one or other 
of these descriptions most of his own poemsi 
will class. Let us compare him with his pre- 
decessors under each of these points of view, 
and close our examination with a few general 
observations. 

It has frequently been observed, that Scot« 
land has produced, comparatively speaking^^ 
few writers who have excelled m humour. 
But this observation is true only when appli- 
ed to those who have continued to reside in 
their own country, and have confined them- 
selves to composition in pure English ; and 
in these circumstances it admits of an easy 
explanation. The Scottish poets, who have 
written in the dialect of Scotland, have been 
at all times remarkable for dwelling on sub- 
jects of humour, in which indeed many of 
them have excelled. It would be easy to 
show, that the dialect of Scotland having be- 
come provincial, is now scarcely suited to 
the more elevated kinds of poetry. If we 
may believe that the poem of Christis Kirk 
of the Grene was written by James the First 
of Scotland,! this accomplished monarch, 
who had received an English education un- 
der the direction of Henry the Fourth, and 
who bore arms under his gallant successor, 
gave the model on which the greater part of 
the humorous productions of the rustic muse 
of Scotland has been formed. Christis Kirk 
of the Grene was reprinted by Ramsay, some- 
what modernized in the orthography, and tw'o 
cantoes were added by him, in which he at- 
tempts to carry on the design. Hence the 
poem of King James is usually printed in 
Ramsay's works. The royal bard describes, 
in the first canto, a rustic dance, and after- 
wards a contention in archery, ending in an 
affray. Ramsay relates the restoration of 



* In the supplement lo the " Encyclnpaelia 
Britaniiica." See also, "Campbell's lntro:luc- 
tion lo the History of Poetrv in Scotland," 
P. 288. 

32 



* See p. 13. 

f Notwithstanding the evidence produced on 
this subject by Mr. Tytler, the Editor acknow- 
ledges his being somewhat of a sceptic on this 
point. Sir David Dalrymple inclines to llie opi- 
nion that it was written by his successor, James 
the Fiftli. There are difficulties attending this 
supposition also. But on the subject of Scottislt 
Antiquities, the Editor is an incompetent judge. 



68 



THE LIFE OF BURN'S* 



concord, and the renewal of the rural sports, i 
with the humours of a country wedding. 
Though each of the poets describe? the man- 
ners of his respective age, yet in the whole 
piece there is a very sufficient uniformity ; a 
striking proof of the identity of character in 
the Scottish peasantry at the two periods, 
distant from each other three hundred years. 
It is an honourable distinction to this body 
of men, that their character and manners, 
very little embellished, have been found to 
be susceptible of an amusing and interesting 
species of poetry ; and it must appear not a 
little curious, that the single nation of mo- 
dern Europe, which possesses an original ru- 
ral poetry, should have received the model, 
followed by their rustic bards, from th« mo- 
narch on the throne. 

The two additional cantoes to Christis Kirk 
of the Grene, written by Ramsay, though ob- 
jectionable in point of delicacy, are among 
the happiest of his productions. His chief 
excellence, indeed, lay in the description of 
tural characters, incidents, and scenery ; for 
he did not possess any very high powers either 
of imagination or of understanding. He was 
well acquainted with the peasantry of Scot- 
land, their lives and opinions. The subject 
was in a great measure new ; his talents 
were equal to the subject ; and he has shown 
that it may be happily adapted to pastoral 
poetry. In his Gentle Shepherd the charac- 
ters are delineations from nature, the descrip- 
tive parts are in the genuine style of beauti- 
ful simplicity, the passions and affections of 
rural life are finely portrayed, and the heart 
is pleasingly interested in the happiness that 
isbestowed on innocence and virtue. Through- 
out the whole there is an air of reality which 
the most careless reader cannot but perceive ; 
and in fact no poem ever perhaps acquired so 
high a reputation, in which truth received so 
little embellishment from the imagination. 
In his pastoral songs, and in his rural tales, 
Ramsay appears to less advantage indeed, but 
still with considerable attraction. The story 
of the Monk and the Miller^ s Wife, though 
somewhat licentious, may rank with the hap- 
piest productions of Prior or La Fontaine. 
But when he attempts subjects from higher 
life, and aims at pure English composition, 
be is feeble and uninteresting, and seldom 
ever reaches mediocrity.* Neither are his fa- 
miliar epistles and elegies in the Scottish dia- 
lect entitled to much approbation. Though 
Fergussonhad higher powers of imagination 
than Ramsay, his genius was not of the high- 
est order ; nor did his learning, which was 
considerable, improve his genius. His poems 
written in pure English, in which he often 
follows classical models, though superior to 
the English poems of Ramsay, seldom rise 
above mediocrity ; but in those composed in 

* See "Trre Merning Interview," &nc; 



the Scottish dialect he is often very success- 
ful. He was in general, however, less happy 
than Ramsay in the subjects of his muse. 
As he spent the greater part of his life in 
Edinburgh, and wrote for his amusement in 
the intervals of business or dissipation, his 
Scottish poems are chiefly founded on the in- 
cidents of a town life, which, though they 
are susceptible of humour, do not admit of 
those delineations of scenery and manners, 
which vivify the rural poetry of Ramsay, and 
which so agreeably amuse the fancy and in- 
terest the heart. The town-eclogues of Fer- 
gusson, if we may so denominate them, are 
however faithful to nature, and often distin- 
guished by a very happy vein of humour. 
His poems entitled, The Daft Days, The 
King^s Birth-day in Edinburgh, Leith Races, 
and The Hallow Fair, will justify this cha- 
racter. In these, particularly in the last, he 
imitated Christis Kirk of the Grene, as Ram- 
say had done before him. His Address to the 
Tronkirk Bell is an exquisite piece of hu- 
mour, which Burns has scarcely excelled. In 
appreciating the genius of Fergusson, it ought 
to be recollected, that his poems are the care- 
less effusions of an irregular, though amiable 
young man, who wrote for the periodical pa- 
pers of the day, and who died in early youth. 
Had his life been prolonged under happier 
circumstances of fortune, he would probably 
have risen to much higher reputation. He 
might have excelled m rural poetry ; for 
though his professed pastorals on the estab- 
lished Sicilian model, are stale and uninterest- 
ing. The Farmer^ s Ingle,^ which may be con- 
sidered as a Scottish pastoral, is the happiest 
of all his productions, and certainly was the 
archetype of the Cotter^s Saturday JVight. 
Fergusson, and more especially Burns, have 
shown that the character and manners of the 
peasantry of Scotland of the present times, 
are as well adapted to poetry, as in the days 
of Ramsay, or of the author of Christis Kirk 
of the Grene. 

The humour of Burns is of a richer vein 
than that of Ramsay or Fergusson, both of 
whom, as he himself informs us, he had " fre- 
quently in his eye, but rather with a view to 
kindle at their flame, than to servile imita- 
tion."! His descriptive powers, whether the 
objects on which they are employed be comic 
or serious, animate or inanimate, are of the 
highest order. A superiority of this kind is 
essential to every species of poetical excel- 
lence. In one of his earlier poems, his plan 
seems to be to inculcate a lesson of content- 
ment in the lower classes of society, by show- 
ing that their superiors are neither much bet- 
ter nor happier than themselves ; and this he 
chooses to execute in a form of a dialogue 
between two dogs. He introduces this dia- 
logue by an account of the persons and cha- 



* The farmer's fire-side, t See Appendix. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



69 



racters of the speakers. The first, whom he 
has named Casar, is a dog of condition : 

" His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar, 
Show'd him the gentleman and scholar." 

High-bred though he is, he is, however, full 
of condescension : 

" At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae lawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie. 
But he wad stawn't, as glad to see him. 
And stroan't on stanes an^ hillocks tof himJ*'' 

The other, Luath}\s a " ploughman's collie," 
but a cur of a good heart and a sound under- 
standing. 

" His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 
Ay gat him friends in ilka place ; 
His breast was white, his towsie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black. 
His gawcie tail, wp upward curl, 
Hung o''er his hvrdies wV a swurl." 

Never were twa dogs so exquisitely deli- 
neated. Their gambols before they sit down 
to moralize, are described with an equal 
degree of happiness ; and through the whole 
dialogue, the character, as well as the dif- 
ferent condition of the two speakers, is kept 
in view. The speech of Luath, in which he 
enumerates the comforts of the poor, gives 
the following account of their merriment on 
the first day of tho year : 

'♦That merry day the year begins, 
They bar the door on frosty winds ; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, 
And sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; 
The luntin pipe, and sneeshin mill. 
Are handed round wi' richt guid will 
The cantie auld folks crackin crouse, 
The young anes rantin thro' the house. 
My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
That I for joy hae barkit wV them.'''' 

Of all the animals who have moralized on 
human aflTairs since the days of >Esop, the 
dog seems best entitled to this privilege, as 
well from his superior sagacity, as from his 
being more than any other, the friend and 
associate of man. The dogs of Burns, except- 
ing in their talent for moralizing, are down- 
right dogs ; and not like the horses of Swift, 
or the Hind and Panther of Dryden, men in 
the shape of brutes. It is this circumstance 
that heightens the humour of the dialogue. 
The " twa dogs" are constantly kept before 
our eyes, and the contrast between their form 
and character as dogs, and the sagacity of 
their conversation, heightens the humour and 
deepens the impression of the poet's satire. 
Though in this poem the chief excellence 
may be considered as humour, yet great 
talents are displayed in its composition ; the 
happiest powers of description and the deepest 



insight into the human heart.** It is seldom, 
however, that the humour of Burns appears 
in so simple a form. The liveliness of his 
sensibility frequently impels him to introduce 
into subjects of humour, emotions of tender- 
ness or of pity ; and where occasion admits, 
he is sometimes carried on to exert the higher 
posversof imagination. In such instances he 
leaves the society of Ramsay and of Fergus- 
son, and associates himself with the masters 
of English poetry, whose language he fre- 
quently assumes. 

Of the union of tenderness and humour, 
examples may be found in The Death and 
Dying Words of poor Mailie, in The Auld 
Farmrr's JVew- Yearns Morning Salutation 
to his Mare Maggie, and, in many of bis 
other poems. The praise of whiskey is a 
favourite subject with Burns. To this he 
dedicates his poem of Scotch Drink. After 
mentioning its cheering influence in a variety 
of situations, ho describ 'S, with singular live- 
liness and power of fancy, its stimulating 
effects on the blacksmith working at his 
forge : 

♦' Na e mercy, then, for aim or steel ; 
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel, 
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel, 

The strong fore hammer, 
Till block an' studdie ring an' reel 

Wi' dinsome clamour." 

On another occasion,! choosing to exalt 
whiskey above wine, he introduces a com- 
parison between the natives of more genial 
climes, to whom the vine furnishes their beve- 
rage, and his own countrymen who drink the 
spirit of malt. The description of the Scots■^ 
men is humorous : 

But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, 
Clap in his cheek a' Highland gill, 
Say such is Royal George's will, 

An' there's the foe. 
He has nae thought but how to kill 

Twa at a blow." 



* When this poem first appeared, it was thought 
by some very surprising that a peasant, who had 
not an opporttmity of associating even with a 
simple gentleman, should have been able to por- 
tray lhe"character of high-life with such accuracy. 
And \^'hell it was iccoUected that he had probably 
been at the races of Ayr, where nobility as well 
as gentry are to be seen, it was concluded that 
the race ground had been the field of his observa- 
tion. This was sagacious enough ; but it did not 
require such instruction to inform Burns, that 
human nature is essentially the same in the higll 
and the low; and a genius which comprehende 
the human mind, easily comprehends the acci- 
dental varieties introduced by situation. 

f ♦• The Author's EawJest Cry and Prayer to 
the Scotch RepreseYitatives in PairliwTrent." 



YO 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



Here the notion oi aanger rouses the ima- 
gination of the poet. He goes on thus : 

<' Nae cauld, faint-hearted doublings tease him ; 
Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him ; 
VVi' bluidy liand a welcome gies him ; 

An' when he fa's, 
His latest draught o' breathing lea'es him 
In faint huzzas." 

Again, however, he sinks into humour, and 
concludes the poem with the following most 
laughable, but most irreverent apostrophe : 

" Scotland, my aukl respected Mither ! 
Tho' whiles ye ;i)oistify your leather. 
Till whareye sit, on craps o' heather, 

Ye tine your dam : 
Freedom and whiskty gang ihegither, 
Tak off your dram ! 

Of this union of humour with the higher 
powers of imagination, instances may be 
found in the poem entitled Death and Dr. 
Hornbook, and in almost every stanza of the 
Address to the Deil, one of the happiest of 
his productions. After reproaching this terri- 
ble being with all his " doings" and misdeeds, 
in the course of which he passes through a 
series of Scottish superstitions, and rises at 
times into a high strain of poetry ; he con- 
cludes this address, delivered in a tone of great 
familiarity, not altogether unmixed with 
apprehension, in the following words : 

" But, fare ye weel, auld Nickie ben I 
O wad you tak a thought an' men' ! 
Ye aiblins might — I dinna ken — 

Still hae a stake — 
I'm wae to think upo' yon den 

E'en for your sake !" 

Humour and tenderness are here so happily 
intermixed, that it is impossible to say which 
preponderates. 

Fergusson wrote a dialogue between the 
Causeway a.nd the Plainstones* of "Edinburgh. 
This probably suggested to Burns his dialogue 
between the Old and the New Bridge over 
the river Ayr.t The nature of such subjects 
requires thattheyshallbe treated humorously, 
and Fergusson has attempted nothing beyond 
this. Though the Causeway and the Plain- 
stones talk together, no attempt is made to 
personify the speakers. A " cadie"t heard 
the conversation and reported it to the poet. 

In the dialogue between the Brigs of Ayr, 
Burns himself is the auditor, and the time 
and occasion on which it occurred is related 
with great circumstantiality. The poet, 
"pressed by care," or " inspired by whim," 
had left his bed in the town of Ayr, and wan- 
* 

* The middle of the street, and the side-way. 
i The Brigs of Ayr, Peems, p. 21. 
i A messenger. 



dered out alone in the darkness and solitude 
of a winter night, to the mouth of the river, 
where the stillness was interrupted only by 
the rushing sound of the influx of the tide. 
It was after midnight. The Dungeon-clcck* 
had struck two, and the sound had been 
repeated by Wallace-Tower.* All else was 
hushed. The moon shone brightly, and 

" 'Che chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, 
Crept, gently crusting, o'er the glittering 
strea)n." — 

In this situation the listening bard hears the 
" clanging sugh" of wings moving through 
the air, and speedily he perceives two beings, 
reared the one on the Old, the other on the 
New Bridge, whose form and attire he de- 
scribes, and whose conversation with each 
other he rehearses. These genii enter into 
a comparison of the respective edifices over 
which they preside, and afterwards, as is 
usual between the old and young, compare 
modern characters and manners with those 
ofpasttimes. They differ, asmay be expected, 
and taunt and scold each other in broad 
Scotch. This conversation, which is cer- 
tainly humorous, may be considered as the 
proper business, of the poem. As the debate 
runs high, and threatens serious conse- 
quences, all at once it is interrupted by a 
new scene of wonders : 

-all before their sight 



A fairy train appear'd in order bright; 
Adown the glittering stream they featly danc'd ; 
Bright to the moon their various dressesglanc'd ; 
They footed o'er the watry glass so neat, 
The infant ice scarce bent beneatTi their feet ; 
While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung, 
And soul-ennobling Bards heroic ditties sung." 

" The Genius of the Stream in front appears — 
A venerable chief, advanc'd in years; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, 
His manly leg with garter-tangle bound." 

Next follow a number of other allegorical 
beings, among whom are the four seasons, 
Rural Joy, Plenty, Hospitality, and Courage : 

" Benevolence, with mild benignant air, 
A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair; 
Learning and Wealth in equal measures trode, 
From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode ; 
Last, white-robed Peace, crown'd with a hazel- 
wreath, 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken iron instrument of Death : 
At sight of whom our sprites forgat their kind- 
ling wrath." 

This poem, irregular and imperfect as it is, 
displays various and powerful talents, and 
may serve to illustrate the genius of Burns. 
In particular, it affords a striking instance of 
his being carried beyond his original purpose 
by the powers of imagination. 



The two steeples of Ayr. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



71 



In Fergusson's poems, the Pluinstones and 
Causeway contrast tlie characters of the dif- 
ferent persons who walked upon them . Burns 
probably conceived, that, by a dialogue 
between the Old and New Bridge, he might 
form a humorous contrast betwt;en ancient 
and modern manners in the town of Ayr. 
Such a dialogue could only be supposed to 
pass in the stillness of ni^ht ; and this led 
our poet into adescriptionof a midnight scene, 
which excited in a high degree the powers of 
his imagination. During tlie whole dialogue 
the scenery is present to his fancy, and at 
length it suggests to him a fairy dance of 
aerial beings, under the beams of the moon, 
by which the wrath of the Genii of the Brigs 
of Atjr is appeased. 

Incongruous as the different parts of this 
poem are, it is not an incongruity that dis- 
pleases ; and we have only to regret that the 
poet did not bestow a little pains in making 
the figures more correct, and in smoothing 
the versification. 

The epistles of Burns, in which may be 
included his Dedication to G. H. Esq. dis- 
cover, like his other writings, the powers of 
a superior understanding. They display deep 
insight into human nature, a gay and happy 
strain of reflection, great independence of 
sentiment, and generosity of heart. It is to 
be regretted, that, in his Holy Fair, and in 
some of his other poems, his humour degene- 
rates into personal satire, and that it is not 
sufficiently guarded in other respects. The 
Halloween of Burns is free from every objec- 
tion of this sort. It is interesting, not merely 
from its humorous description of manners, 
but as it records the spells and charms used 
on the celebration of a festival, now, even in 
Scotland, falling into neglect, but which was 
once observed over the greater part of Britain 
and Ireliind* These charms are supposed 
to afford an insight into futurity, especiallv 
on the subject of marriage, the most interest- 
ing event of rural life. In the Halloween, a 
female in perforn»ing one of the spells, has 
occasion to go out by moonlight to dip her 
shift-sleeve into a stream running toioards 
the SouthA It was nut necessary for Burns 
to give a description of this stream. But it 
was the character of his ardent mind to pour 
forth not merely what the occasion required, 
but what it admitted ; and the temptation to 
describe so beautiful a natural object by 
moonlight, was not to be resisted. 

"Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays 

As thro' the glen it wimpl't ; 
Whyles round a rocky scar it strays ; 

Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; 



* In Ireland it is still celebrated. It is not quite 
in disuse in Wales. 

+ See •• Halloween," Stanzas xxiv. and xxv. 



Wiiyles glitter'd to llie nightly rays, 
Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 

Whyles cookit underneath tlie braes, 
Below the spreading hcizel, 
Unseen that night." 

Those who understand the Scottish dialect 
will allow this to be one of the finest instances 
of description which the records of poetry 
afford. Though of a very different nature, 
it may be compared in point of excellence 
with Thomson's description of a riverswoilen 
by the rains of winter, bursting through the 
straights that confine its torrent,. " boiling, 
wheeling, foaming, and thundering along."- 

In pastoral, or, to speak more correctly, in 
rural poetry of a serious nature, Burns ex- 
celled equally as in that of a humorous kind ; 
and, using less of the Scottish dialect in his 
serious pnems, he becomes more generally 
intelligible. It is difficult to decide whether 
the Address to a Mouse, lohose nest was 
turned up icith the plough, should be consi- 
dered as serious or comic. Be this as it 
may, the poem is one of the happiest and 
most finished of his productions. If we 
smile at the " bickering battle" of this little 
flying animal, it is a smile of tenderness and 
pity. The descriptive part is admirable ; the 
moral reflections beautiful, and arising di- 
rectly out of the occasion ; and in the con- 
clusion there is a deep melancholy, a senti- 
ment of doubt and dread, that rises to the 
sublime. The Mdress to a Mountain Daisy, 
turned down with the plough, is a poem of the 
same nature, though somewhat inferior in 
point of originality, as well as in the interest 
producedk To extract out of incidents so 
common, and seemingly so trivial as these, 
so fine a train of sentiment and imagery, is 
the surest proof, as well as the most brilliant 
triumph, of original genius. The Vision, in 
two cantoes, from which a beautiful extract 
is taken by Mr. Mackenzie, in the 97th 
number of The Lounger, is a poem of great 
and various excellence. The opening, in 
which the poet describes his own state of 
mind, retiring in the evening, wearied from 
the labours of the day, to moralize on his 
conduct and prospects, is truly interesting. 
The chamber, if we may so term it, in which 
he sits down to muse, is an exquisite paint- 
ing : 

«♦ There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek 
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek, 
That fill'd, wi' hoast-provoking smeek, 
The auld clay biggin ; 
An' heard the restless rattons squeak 
About the riggin." 

To reconcile to our imagination the en- 
trance of an aerial being into a mansion of 
this kind, required the powers of Burns — he 

* See Thomson's Winter, 



72 



THC LIFE OF BURiNS. 



however succeeds. Coila enters, and her 
countenance, attitude, and dress, unlike 
those of other spiritual beings, are distinctly 
portrayed. To the painting, on her mantle, 
<5n which is depicted the most striking 
scenery, as well as the most distinguished 
characters, of his native country, some ex- 
ceptions may be made. The mantle of Coila, 
like the cup of Thyrsis,* and the shield of 
Achilles, is too much crowded with figures, 
and some of the objects represented upon it 
are scarcely admissible, according to the 
principles of design. The generous tempera- 
ment of Burns led him into these exuber- 
ances. In his second edition he enlarged the 
number of figures originally introduced, that 
he might include objects to which he was 
attached by sentiments of affection, grati- 
tude, or patriotism. The second Duan, or 
canto of this poem, in which Coila describes 
her own nature and occupations, particularly 
her superintendence of his infant genius, 
and in which she reconciles him to the cha- 
racter of a bard, is an elevated and solemn 
strain of poetry, ranking in all respects, ex- 
cepting the harmony of numbers, with the 
higher productions of the English muse. 
The concluding stanza, compared with that 
already quoted, will show to what a height 
Burns rises in this poem, from the point at 
which he set out : — 

^^ And tvear thou this — she solemn said, 
And, bound the Holly round my head : 
The polish'd leaves, and berries re I, 

Did rustling play; 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 

In light away." 

In various poems. Burns has exhibited the 
picture of a mind under the deep impressions 
■of real sorrow. The Lament, the Ode to 
Ruin, Despondency, and Winter, a Dirge, 
are of this character. In the first of these 
poems, the 8th stanza, v,?hich describes a 
sleepless night from anguish of mind, is par- 
ticularly striking. Burns often indulged in 
those melancholy views of the nature and 
condition of man, which are so congenial to 
the temperament of sensibility. The poem 
entitled Man was made to Mourn, affords an 
instance of this kind, and The Winter Night 
is of the same description. The last is highly 
characteristic, both of the temper of mind, 
and of the condition of Burns. It begins 
with a description of a dreadful storm on a 
night in winter. The poet represents himself 
as lying in bed, and listening to its howl- 
ing. In this situation he naturally turns his 
thoughts to the owrie Cattle and the silly 
Sheep, exposed to all the violence of the tem- 
pest. Having lamented their fate, he pro- 
ceeds in the following manner : 



Seethe first Idyllium of Theocritus. 



*' Ilk happing bird — wee, helpless thing I 
That, in the merry months o' spring, 
Delighted me to hear thee sing. 

What coines o' thee ? 
Whare will thou cow'r thy chittering wing, 

An' close thy e'e .'"' 

Other reflections of the same nature occur 
to his mind ; and as the midnight moon 
" muffled with clouds" casts her dreary light 
on his window, thoughts of a darker and 
more melancholy nature crowd upon him. 
In this state of mind, he hears a voice pour- 
ing through the gloom a solemn and plain- 
tive strain of reflection. The mourner 
compares the fury of the elements with that 
of man to his brother man, and finds the 
former light in the balance. 

" .See stern oppression's iron grip, 

Or mad ambition's gory hand, 
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, 

Wo, want, and murder, o'er a land!" 

He pursues this train of reflection through 
a variety of particulars, in the course of 
which he introduces the following animated 
apostrophe : 

" Oh ye ! who, sunk in beds of down. 

Feel not a want but what yourselves create. 

Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, 
Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! 

lU-salisfy'd keen Nature's clam'rous call, 
Stretch'don his straw he lays himself to sleep, 

While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall, 
Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap !" 

The strain of sentiment which runs through 
the poem is noble, though the execution is 
unequal, and the versification is defective. 

Among the serious poems of Burns, The 
Cotter^ s Saturday Night is perhaps entitled 
to the first rank. The Farmer's Ingle of 
Fergusson evidently suggested the plan of 
this poem, as has been already mentioned ; 
but after the plan was formed, Burns trusted 
entirely to his own powers for the execution. 
Fergusson's poem is certamly very beautiful. 
It has all the charms which depend on rural 
characters and manners happily portrayed, 
and exhibited under circumstances highly 
grateful to the imagination. The Farmer's 
Ingle begins with describing the return of 
evening. The toils of the day are over, and 
the farmer retires to his comfortable fire-side. 
The reception which he and his men-ser- 
vants receive from the careful housewife, is 
pleasingly described. Afler their supper is 
over, they begin to talk on the rural events 
of the day. 

" Bout kirk and market eke their tales gae on, 
How Jock wooed Jenny here to be his bride; 

And there how Marion for a bastard son, 
Upo' the cutty-stool was forced to ride, 

The waefu' scauld o' our Mess Johnto bide." 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



73 



The *' Guidame" is next introduced as 
forming a circle round the fire, in the midst 
of her grand-children, and while she spins 
from the rock, and tlie spindle plays on her 
" russet lap," she is relating to the young 
ones tales of witches and ghosts. The poet 
exclaims, — 

" O mock na this, my friends ! but rather mourn. 

Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear, 
Wi' eild our idle fancies a' return, 

And dim our dplefu' days wi' bairnly fear ; 
The mind's aye cradled when the g-rave is near." 
• 
In the mean time the farmer, wearied 
with the fatigues of the day, stretches him- 
self at length on the Settle^ a sort of rustic 
couch, which extends on one side of the fire, 
and the cat and house-dog leap upon it to 
receive his caresses. Here resting at his 
ease, he gives his directions to his men-ser- 
vants for the succeeding day. The house- 
wife follows his example, and gives her 
orders to the maidens. By degrees the oil 
in the cruise begins to fail; the fire runs 
low ; sleep steals on this rustic group ; and 
they move off to enjoy their peaceful slum- 
bers. The poet concludes by bestowing his 
blessings on the " husbandman and all his 
tribe." 

This is an original and truly interesting 
pastoral. It possesses every thing required 
in this species of composition. We might 
have perhaps said every thing that it admits, 
had not Burns written his Cotter's Saturday 
Mght. 

The cottager returning from his labours, 
has no servants to accompany him, to partake 
of his fare, or to receive his instructions. 
The circle which he joins, is composed of 
his wife and children only ; and if it admits 
of less variety, it affords an opportunity for 
representing scenes that more strongly in- 
terest the affections. The younger children 
running to meet him, and clambering round 
his knee ; the elder, returning from their 
weekly labours with the neighbouring far- 
mers, dutifully depositing their little gains 
with their parents, and receiving their 
father's blessing and instructions ; the inci- 
dents of the courtship of Jenny, their eldest 
daughter, " woman grown ;" are circum- 
stances of the most interesting kind, which 
are most happily delineated ; and after their 
frugal supper, the representation of these 
humble cottagers forming a wider circle 
round their hearth, and uniting in the wor- 
ship of God, is a picture the most deeply af- 
fecting of any which the rural muse has ever 
presented to the view. Burns was admirably 
adapted to this delineation. Like all men 
of genius, he was of the temperament of de- 
votion, and the powers of memory co-oper- 
ated in this instance with the sensibility of 
his heart, and the fervour of his imagina- 



tion.* The Cotter's Saturday Kiglit is tender 
and moral, it is solemn and devotional, and 
rises at length into a strain of grandeur and 
sublimity, which modern poetry bus not sur- 
passed. T!ie noble sentiments of patriotism 
with which it concludes, correspond with the 
rest of the poem. In no age or country 
have the pastoral muses breathed such ele- 
vated accents, if the Messiah of Pope be ex- 
cepted, which is indeed a pastoral in form 
only. It is to be regretted that Burns did 
not employ his genius on other subjects of 
the same nature, which the manners and 
customs of the Scottish peasantrj^ would have 
amply supplied. Such poetry is nor to be 
estimated by the degree of pleasure which it 
bestows ; it sinks deeply into the heart, and 
is calculated far beyond any other human 
means, for giving permanence to the scenes 
and characters it so exquisitely describes. t 

Before we conclude, it will be proper to 
offer a few observations on the lyric produc- 
tions of Burns. His compositions of this 
kind are chiefly songs, generally in the Scot- 
tish dialect, and always after the model of 
the Scottish songs, on the general character 
and moral influence of which, some observa- 
tions have already been oftered.t We may 
hazard a few more particular remarks. 

Of the historic or heroic ballads of Scot- 
land, it is unnecessary to speak. Burns has 
nowhere imitated them, a circumstance to be 
regretted, since in this species of composi- 
tion, from its admitting the more terrible as 
well as the softer graces of poetry, he was 
eminently qualified to have excelled. The 
Scottish songs which served as a model to 
Burns, are almost without exception pas- 
toral, or rather rural. Such of them as are 
comic, frequently treat of a rustic courtship 
or a country wedding ; or they describe the 
differences of opinion which arise in married 
life. Burns has imitated this species, and 
surpassed his models. The song, beginning, 
"Husband, husband, cease your strife," § 
may be cited in supj)ort of this observation.(| 
His other comic songs are of equal merit. 
In the rural songs of Scotland, whether hu- 
morous or tender, the sentiments are given 
to particular characters, and very gene- 



* The reader will recollect that the Cotter was 
Burns's father. See p. 22. 

t See Appendix, No. II., note D. 

\ See p. 5. 

5 See Poems, p. 111. 

II The dialogues between husbands and their 
wives, which form the subjects of the Scottish 
songs, are almost all ludicrous and satirical, and 
in these contests the lady is generally victorious. 
From the collections of Mr. Pinkerton we find 
that the comic muse of Scotland delighted in 
such representations from very early times, in 
her rude dramatic eftbrts, as well as in her rustic 
songs. 



74 



THE LIFE OF BURIVS. 



rally, the incidents are referred to particular 
scenery. This last circumstance may be 
considered as the distinguished feature of 
the Scottidh songs, and on it a considerable 
part of their attraction depends. On all 
occasions the sentiments, of Avhatevei nature, 
are delivered in the character of the person 
principally interested. If love be described, 
it is not as it is observed, but as it is felt ; and 
the passion is delineated under a particular 
aspect. Neither is it the fiercer impulses of 
desire that are expressed, as in the celebrated 
ode of Sappho, the model of so many modern 
songs, but those gentler emotions of tender- 
ness and afFectio!), which do not entirely 
absorb the lover ; but permit him to associate 
his emotions with the charms of external 
nature, and breathe the accents of purity 
and innocence, as well as of love. In these 
respects the love-songs of Scotland are ho- 
nourably distinguished from the most admired 
classical compositions of the same kind : and 
by such associations, a variety, 'as well as 
liveliness, is given to the representation of 
this passion, which are not to be found in the 
poetry of Greece or Rome, or perhaps of 
any other nation. Many of the love-songs 
of Scotlanddescribe scenes of rural courtship; 
many may be considered as invocations from 
lovers to theii mistresses. On such occasions 
a degree of interest and reality is given to the 
sentiments, by the spot destined to these 
happy interviews being particularized. The 
lovers perhaps meet at the Bush aboon Tra- 
//Mttir, or on the Banks of Kttrick; the nymphs 
are invoked to wander among the wilds of 
RosHn, or the woods of Invermay ^Sor is the 
spot merely pointed out ; the scenery is often 
described as well as the characters, so as to 
present a complete picture to the fancy.* 



* One or two examples may illustrate this 
observation. A Scottish song, written about a 
hundred years ago, begins thus : 

'« On Ettrick banks, on a summer's night, 

At gloaming, when the sheep drove hame, 
I met my lassie, braw and tight, 

Come wading barefoot a' her lane ; 
My heart grew light, I ran, 1 flang 

My arms about her lily neck, 
And kiss'd and clasped there fu' lang, 

My words they were na mony feck."(a) 

The lover, who is a Highlander, goes on to 
relate the language he employed with his Low- 
land maid to win her heart, and to persuade her 
to fly with him to the Highland hills, there to 
share his fortune. The sentiments are in them- 
selves beautiful. But we feel them with double 
force, while we conceive that they were addressed 
by a lover to his mistress, whomhe met all alone, 
on a summer's evening, by the banks of abeautiful 
stream, which some of us have actually seen, and 
which all of us can paint to our imagination. 

(a). Money feck, not very many. 



Thus the maxim of HoTa.ce utpiciurapoesis, 
is faithfully observed by these rustic bards, 
who are guided by the same impulse of na- 
ture and sensibility which influenced the 
father of epic poetry, on whose example the 
precept of the Roman poet was perhaps 
founded. By this means the imagination is 
employed to interest the feelings. When 
we do not conceive distinctly, we do not sym- 
pathize deeply in any human affection ; and 
we conceive nothing in the abstract. Ab- 
straction, so useful in morals, and so essen- 
tial in science, must beabanfoned when the 
heart is to be subdued by the peters of poetry 
or of eloquence. The bards oi a ruder con- 
dition of society paint individual objects; 
and hence, among other causes, the easy 
access they obtain to the heart. Generaliza- 
tion is the vice of poets whose learning over- 
powers their genius; of poets of a refined 
and scientific age. 

The dramatic style which prevails so much 
in the Scottish songs, while it contributes 
greatly to the interest they excite, also shows 
that they have originated among a people in 
the earlier stages of society. Where this 
form of composition appears in songs of a 
modern date, it indicates that they have been 
written after the ancient model.-^ 



Let us take another example. It is now a nymph 
that speaks. Hear how she expresses herself— 

" How blythe each morn was I to see 

My swain come o'er the hill I 
He skipt the burn, and flew to me, 

I met him with guid will." 

Here is another picture drawn by the pencil 
of Nature. We see a shepherdess standing by 
the side of a brook, watching her lover as he de- 
scends the opposite hill. He bounds lightly 
along; he approaches nearer and nearer; he 
leaps the brook, and flies into her arms. In the 
recollection of these circumstances, the sur- 
rounding scenery becomes endeared to the fair 
mourner, and she bursts into the following ex- 
clamation : 

" O the broom, the bonnie, bonnie broom, 
The broom of the Cowden-Knowes .' 

I wish I were with my dear swain, 
With his pipe and my ewes." 

Thus the individual spot of this happy interview 
is pointed out, and the picture is completed. 

* That the dramatic form of writing charac- 
terizes the productions of an early, or, what 
amounts to the same thing, of a rude stage of so- 
ciety, may be illustrated by a reference to the 
most ancient compositions that we know of, the 
Hebrew scriptures, and the writings of Homer. 
The form of dialogue is adopted in the old Scot- 
tish ballads even in narration, whenever the si- 
tuations described become interesting. This some- 
times produces a very striking effect, of which an 
instance may be given from the ballad of Edom o'- 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



T5 



The Scottish songs are of a very unequal 
poetical merit, and this inequality often ex- 
tends to the different parts of the same sonff. 
Those that are humorous, or characteristic 
of manners, have in general the merit of co- 
pyinif nature ; those that are serious, are ten- 
der, and often sweetly interesting, but sel- 
dom exhibit high powers of imagination, 
which indeed do not easily find a place in 
this species of composition. The alliance of 
the words of the Scottish songs with the mu- 
sic, has in some instances given to the for- 
mer a popularity, which otherwise they would 
not have obtained. 

The association of the words and the mu- 
sic of these songs, with the more beautiful 
parts of the scenery r^f Scotland, contributes 
to the same effect. It has given them not 
merely popularity, but permanence ; it has 
imparted to the works of man some portion 
of the durability of the works of nature. If, 
from our imperfect experience of the past, 
we may judge with any confidence respect- 
ing the future, songs of this description are 
of all others least likely to die. In the changes 
of langiiage they may no doubt suffer change ; 
but the associated strain of sentiment and of 
music will perhaps survive, while the clear 
stream sweeps Jown the vale of Yarrow, or 
the yellow broom waves on Cowden-Knowes. 

The first attempts of Burns in song writing 
were not very successful. His habitual in- 
attention to the exactness of rhymes, and to 
the harmony of numbers, arising probably 
from the models on which his versification 



Gordon, a composition apparently of the six- 
teenth century. The story of the ballad is short- 
ly thi.^. — The castle of Rhodes, in the absence of 
its lord, is attacked by the robber Edom o' Gor- 
don. The lady stands on her defence, beats off 
the assailants, and wounds Gordon, who, in his 
rage, orders the castle to be set on fire. That his 
orders are carried into effect, we learn from the 
expostulations of the lady, who is reprc-sented as 
standing on the battlements, and remonstrating 
on this barbarity. She is interrupted — 

«' O then bespake her little son, 

Sate on his nourice knee ; 
Says, ' mither dear gi' owre this house, 

For the reek it smilhers me.' 
' I wad gie a' mygowd, mychilde, 

Sae wad I a' my fee. 
For ae blast o' the weslin wind, 

To blaw the reek frae thee.' " 

The circumstantiality of the Scottish love-songs, 
and the dramaiic form which prevails so gene- 
rally in them, probably arises from their being 
the descendants and successors of the ancient bal- 
lads. In the beautiful modern song o( Mary of 
C'astle-Cary, the dramatic form has a very happy 
eftect. The same may be said of Donald and 
Flora, and Come under my plaidie, by the same 
author, Mr. Macniel. 

33 



was formed, were faults likely to appear to 
more disadvantage in this species of compo- 
sition, than in any other ; and we may also 
remark, that the strength of his imagination, 
and the exuberance of his sensibility, were 
with ditliculty restrained within the limits of 
gentleness, delicacy, and tenderness, which 
seemed to be assigned to the love-songs of 
his nation. Burns was better adapted by na- 
ture for following, in such compositions, the 
model of the Grecian, than that of the Scot- 
tish muse. By study and practice he howe- 
ver surmounted all these obstacles. In his 
earlier s mgs, there is some ruggedness ; but 
this gradually disappears in his successive 
efforts; and some of his later compositions 
of this kind may be compared, in polished 
delicacy, with the finest songs in our lan- 
guage, v/hile in the eloquence of sensibility 
they surpass them all. 

The songs of Burns, like the models he fol- 
lowed and excelled, are often dramatic, and 
for the greater part amatory ; and the beau- 
ties of rural nature are every where associ- 
ated with the passions and emotions of the 
mind. Disdaining to copy the works of 
others, he has not, like some poets of great 
name, admitted into his descriptions exotic 
imagery. The landscapes he has painted, 
and the objects with which they are embel- 
lished, are, in every single instance, such as 
are to be found in his own country. In a 
mountainous region, especially when it is 
comparatively rude and naked, and the mo.«t 
beautiful scenery will always be found in the 
valleys, and on the banks of the wooded 
streams. Such scenery is peculiarly inte- 
resting at the close of a summer day. As we 
advance northwards, the number of the days 
of summer, indetd, diminishes ; but from this 
cause, as well as from the mildness of the 
temperafure, the attraction of the season in- 
creases, and the summer night becomes still 
more beautiful. The greater obliquity of the 
sun's path on the ecliptic prolongs the grate- 
ful season of twilight to the midnight hours : 
and the shades of the evening seem to min- 
gle with the morning's dawn. The rural 
poets of Scotland, as may be expected, asso- 
ciate in their songs the expressions of pas- 
sion, with the most beautiful of their scenery, 
in the fairest season of the year, and gene- 
rally in those hours of the evening when the 
beauties of nature are most interesting,''^ 

* A lady, of whose genius the editor entertains 
high admiration, (Mrs. Barbauld,) has fallen into 
an error in <his respect. In her prefatory address 
to the works of Collins, speaking of the natural 
objects that may bs employed to give interest to 
the descriptions of passion, she observes, " they 
present an inexhaustible varietj', from the Song 
of Solomon, breatliing of cassia, myrrh, and cin- 
namon, to the Gentle Sheplierd of Ramsay, whose 
damsels carry their milking-paik through the 
frosts and snows of their less genial, but not less 



'G 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



To all these adventitious circumstances, 
on which so much of the effect of poetry de- 
pends, great attention is paid by Burns. — 
There is scarcely a single song of his, in 
which particular scenery is not described, or 
allusions made to natural objects, remarkable 
for beauty or interest : and though his de- 
scriptions are not so full as are sometimes 
rtiet with in the older Scottish songs, they 
are in the highest degree appropriate and in- 
teresting. Instances in proof of this might 
be quoted from the Lea. Rig, Highland Mary, 
The Soldier^ s Return, Logan Water ; from 
that beautiful pastoral Bonny Jean, and a 
great number of others. Occasionally the 
force of his genius carries him beyond the 
usual boundaries of Scottish song, and the 
natural objects introduced have more of the 
character of sublimity. An instance of this 
kind is noticed by Mr. Syme,* and many 
others might be adduced: 

" Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore, 
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar: 

There would I weep my woes, 

There seek, my last repose, 

Till grief my eyes should close 
IS e'er lo wake more." 

In one song, the scene of which is laid in a 
winter-night, the " wan moon" is described 
as " setting behind the white waves ;" in 
another, the *' storms" are apostrophized, and 
commanded to "rest in the cave of their 
slumbers," on several occasions the genius 
of Burns loses sight entirely of his arche- 
types, and rises into a strain of uniform sub- 
limity. Instances of this kind appear in Li- 
berties a Vision; and in his two war-songs, 
Bruce to his Troops, and the Song of Death. 
These last are of a description of which we 
have no other in our language. The mar- 
tial songs of our nation are not military, but 
naval. If we were to seek a comparison of 

pastoral country." The damsels of Ramsay do 
not walk in the midst of frost and snow. Altiiost 
all the scenes of the Gentle Shepherd are laid in 
ihe open air, amidst beautiful natural objects, 
and at the most genial season of the year. Ram- 
say introduces all his acts with a prefatory de- 
scription to assure us of this The fault of the 
climate of Britain is not, that it does not afford 
us the beauties of summer, but that the season of 
such beauties is comparatively short, and even 
uncertain. There are days and nights, even in 
the northern division of the island, which equal, 
or perhaps surpass, what are to be found in the 
latitude of Sicily, or of Greece. Buchanan, when 
he wrote his exquisite Ode lo May, felt the charm 
as well as the transientness of these happy days ; 

Salve fugacis gloria seculi, 
Salve secundadignadies nota 
Salve vetustse vitae imago, 
Et specimen venientis ^vi. 

* See pp. 42, 49. 



these songs of Burns with others of a similar 
nature, we must have recourse to the poetry 
of ancient Greece, or of modern Gaul. 

Burns has made an important addition to 
the songs of Scotland. In his compositions, 
the poetry equals and sometimes surpasses 
the music. He has enlarged the poetical 
scenery of his country. Many of her rivers 
and mountains, formerly unknown to the 
muse, are now consecrated by his immortal 
verse. The Doon, the Lugar, the Ayr, the 
Nith, and the Cluden, will in future, like the 
Yarrow, the Tweed, and the Tay, be consi- 
dered as classic streams, and their borders 
will be trodden with new and superior emo- 
tions. 

The greater part of the songs of Burns 
were written after he removed into the coun- 
ty of Dumfries. Influenced, perhaps, by ha- 
bits formed in early life, he usually composed 
while walking in the open air. When en- 
gaged in writing these songs, his favourite 
walks were on the banks of the Nith, or of 
the Cluden, particularly near the ruins of 
Lincluden Abbey ; and this beautiful scene- 
ry he has very happily described under va- 
rious aspects, as it appears during the soft- 
ness and serenity of evening, and during the 
stillness and solemnity of the moon-light 
night.* 

There is no species of poetry, the produc- 
tions of the drama not excepted, so much 
calculated to influence the morals, as well as 
the happiness of a people, as those popular 
verses which are associated with national 
airs ', and which being learned in the years 
of infancy, make a deep impression on the 
heart before the evolution of the powers of 
the understanding. The compositions of 
Burns of this kind, now presented in a col- 
lected form to the world, make a most impor- 
tant addition to the popular songs of his na- 
tion. Like all his other writings, they exhi- 
bit independence of sentiment; they are pe- 
culiarly calculated to increase those ties 
which bind generous hearts to their native 
soil, and to the domestic circle of their infan- 
cy ; and to cherish those sensibilities which, 
under due restriction, form the purest hap- 
piness of our nature. If in his unguarded 
moments he composed some songs on which 
this praise cannot be bestowed, let us hope 
that they will speedily be forgotten. In se- 
veral instances, where Scottish airs were al- 
lied to words objectionable in point of deli- 
cacy. Burns has substituted others of a purer 
character On such occasions, without chang- 
ing the subject, he has changed the senti- 
ments. A proof of this may be seen in the 
air of John Anderson my Joe, which is now 
united to words that breathe a strain of con- 

* See Poems, p. 112 ; and A Vision, p. 127. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



I t 



jugal tenderness, that is as highly moral as 
it is exquisitely affecting. 

Few circumstances could afford a more 
striking proof of the strength of Burns's ge- 
nius, than the general circulation of his po- 
ems in England, notwithstanding the dialect 
in which the greater part are written, and 
which might be supposed to render them 
here uncouth or obscure. In some instances 
he has used this dialect on subjects of a sub- 
lime nature ; but in general he confines it to 
sentiments or descriptions of a tender or hu- 
mourous kind ; and where he rises into ele- 
vation of thought, he assumes a purer Eng- 
lish style. The singular faculty he possessed 
of mingling in the same poem, humorous 
sentiments and descriptions, with imagery of 
a sublime and terrific nature, enabled him to 
use this variety of dialect on some occasions 
with striking eflfect. His poem of Tarn o' 
Shanier affords an instance of this. There 
he passes from a scene of the lowest humour, 
to situations of the most awful and terrible 
kind. He is a musician that runs from the 
lowest to the highest of his keys ; and the 
use of the Scottish dialect enables him to add 
two additional notes to the bottom of his 
scale. 

Great efforts have been made by the inha- 
bitants of Scotland, of the superior ranks, to 
approximatein their speech to the pure Eng- 
lish standard ; and this has made it diflicult 
to write in the Scottish dialect without ex- 
citing in them some feelings of disgust, which 
in England are scarcely felt. An Enghsh- 
man who understands the meaning of the 
Scottish words, is not offended, nay, on cer- 
tain subjects, he is perhaps, pleased with the 
rustic dialect, as he may be with the Doric 
Greek of Theocritus. 

But a Scotchman inhabiting his own coun- 
try, if a man of education, and more espe- 
cially if a literary character, has banished 
such words from his writings, and has at- 
tempted to banish them from his speech : 
and being accustomed to hear them from the 
vulgar, daily, does not easily admit of their 
use in poetry, which requires a style elevated 
and ornamental. A dislike of this kind is, 
however, accidental, not natural. It is one 
of the species of disgust which we feel at see- 
ing a female of high birth in the dress of a 
rustic ; which, if she be really young and 
beautiful, a little habit will enable us to over- 
come. A lady who assumes such a dress, 
puts her beauty, indeed, to a severer trial. 
She rejects — she, indeed, opposes the influ- 
ence of fashion ; she possibly abandons the 
grace of elegant and flowing drapery ; but 
her native charms remain the more striking, 
perhaps, because the less adorned; and to 
these she trusts for fixing her empire on 
those affections over which fashion has no 
sway. If she succeeds, a new association 



arises. The dress of the beautiful rustic be- 
comes itself beautiful, and establishes a new 
fashion for the young and the gay. And 
when in after ages, the contemplative ob- 
server shall view her picture in the gallery 
that contains the portraits of the beauties of 
successive centuries, each in the dress of her 
respective day, her drapery will not deviate, 
more than that of her rivals, from the stan- 
dard of his taste, and he will give the palm 
to her who excels in the lineaments of na- 
ture. 

Burns wrote professedly for the peasantry 
of his country, ond by them their native dia- 
lect is universally relished. To a numerous 
class of the natives of Scotland of another 
description, it may also be considered as at- 
tractive in a different point of view. Es- 
tranged from their native soil, and spread 
over foreign lands, the idiom of their coun- 
try unites with the sentiments and the de- 
scriptions on which it is employed, to recal 
to their minds the interesting scenes of in- 
fancy and youth — to awaken many pleasing, 
many tender recollections. Literary men, 
residing at Edinburgh or Aberdeen, cannot 
judge on this point for one hundred and fifty 
thousand of their expatriated countrymen.* 

To the use of the Scottish dialect in one 
species of poetry, the composition of songs, 
the taste of the public has been for some time 
reconciled. The dialect in question excels^ 
as has already been observed, in the copious- 
ness and exactness of its terms for natural 
objects; and in pastoral or rural songs, it 
gives a Doric simplicity," which is very ge- 
nerally approved. Neither does the regret 
seem well founded which some persons of 
taste have expressed, that Burns used this 
dialect in so many other of his compositions. 
His declared purpose was to paint the man- 
ners of rustic life among his " humble com- 
peers," and it is not easy to conceive, that 
this could have been done with equal hu- 
mour and effect, if he had not adopted their 
idiom. There are some, indeed, who will 
think the subject too low for poetry. Per- 
sons of this sickly taste will find their delica- 
cies consulted in many a polite and learned 

* These observations are excited by some re- 
marks of respectable correspondents of the de- 
scription alluded to. This calculation of tlie 
number of Scotchmen living out of Scotland is 
not altogether arbitrary, and it is probably below 
the truth. It is, in some degree, founded on the 
proportion between the number of the sexes in 
Scotland, as it appears from the invaluable Sta- 
tistics of Sir John Sinclair. For Scotchmen of 
this description, more particularly, Burns seems 
to have written his song, beginning, l^heir proves 
o' sweet myrtle, a beautiful strain, which, it may 
be confidently predicted, will be sung with equal 
or superior interest on the banks of the Ganges 
or of the Mississippi, as on those of the Tay or 
the Tweed. 



78 



THE LIFE OF BUKiXS. 



author : let them not seek for gratification in 
the rough and vigorous hnes, in the unbri- 
dled humour, or in the overpowering sensi- 
bility of this bard of nature. 

To determine the comparative merit of 
Burns would be no easy task. Many per- 
sons, afterwards distinguished in literature, 
have been born in as humble a situation of 
life ; but it would be difficult to find any 
other who, while earning his subsistence by 
daily labour, has written verses which have 
attracted and retained universal attention, 
and which are likely to give the author a 
permanent and distinguished place among 
the followers of the muses. If he is deficient 
in grace, he is distinguished for ease as well 
as energy ; and these are indications of the 
iiigher order of genius. The father of epic 
poetry exhibits one of his heroes as excelling 
in strength, another in swiftness — to form 
his perfect warrior, these attributes are com- 
bined. Every species of intellectual supe- 
riority admits perhaps of a similar arrange- 
ment One writer excels in force — another 
in ease ; he is superior to them both, in whom 
both these qualities are united. Of Homer 
himself it may be said, that, like his own 
Achilles, he surpasses his competitors in no- 
bility as well as strength. 



The force of Burns lay in the powers of his 
understanding, and in the sensibility of his 
heart ; and these will be found to infuse the 
living principle into all the works of genius 
which seemed destined to immortality. His 
sensibility had an uncommon range. He was 
alive to every species of emotion. He is one 
of the few poets that can be mentioned, who 
have at once excelled in humour, in tender- 
ness, and in sublimity ; a praise unknown to 
the ancients, and which in modern times is 
only due to Ariosto, to Shakspeare, and per- 
haps to Voltaire. To compare the writings 
of the Scottish peasant with the works of 
these giants in literature, might appear pre- 
sumptuous ; yet it may be asserted, that he 
has displayed the foot of Hercules. How 
near he might have approached them by pro- 
per culture, with lengthened years, and un- 
der happier ausipices, it is not for us to cal- 
culate. But while we run over the melan- 
choly story of his life, it is impossible not to 
heave a sigh at the asperity of his fortune ; 
and as we survey the records of his mind, it 
i.s easy to see, that out of such materials 
have been reared the fairest and the most 
durable of the monuments of genius. 



ADVERTISEMENT 



TO 



DR. CURBIE'S 



EDITION OF THE CORRESPONDENCE. 



* Dr. Currie's edition of Burns's works was 
originally published in four volumes, of which 
the following correspondence formed the second. I 



It is impossible to dismiss tfcis rolume,* 
of the Correspondence of our Bard, without 
some anxiety as to the reception it may meet 
with. The experiment we are making hfis 
not often been tried ; perhaps on no occasion 
has so large a portion of the recent and un- 
premeriitated effusions of a man of genius 
been cornmitted to the press. 

Of the following letters of Burns, a consi- 
derable number were transmitted for publi- 
cation, by the individuals to whom they were 
addressed ; but very few have been printed 
entire. It will easily be believed, that in a 
series of letters written without the least 
view to publication, various passages were 
found unfit for the press, from different con- 
siderations. It will also be rendily supposed, 
that our poet, writing nearly at the same 
time, and under the same feelings, to different 
individuals, would sometimes fall into the 
same train of sentiment and forms of expres- 
sion. To avoid, therefore, the tediousness 
of such repetitions, it has been found neces- 
sary to mutilate many of the individual let- 
ters, and sometimes to exscind parts of great 
delicacy — the unbridled effusions of pane- 
gyric and regard. But though many of the 
letters are printed from originals furnished 
by the persons to whom they were address- 
ed, others are printed from the first draughts, 
or sketches, found among the papers of our 
Bard. Though in general no man commit- 
ted his thoughts to his correspondents with 
less consideration or effort than Burns, yet 
it appears that in some instances he was dis- 
satisfied with his first essays, and wrote out 
his communications in a fairer character, or 
perhaps in more studied language. In the 
chaos of his manuscripts, some of the ori- 
ginal sketches were found ; and as these 
sketches, though less perfect, are fairly to 
be considered as the offspring of his mind, 
where they have seemed in themselves wor- 



thy of a place in this volume, we have not 
hesitated to insert them, though they may 
not always correspond exactly with the let- 
ters transmitted, which, have been lost or 
withheld. 

Our author appears at one time to have 
ff)rmed an intention of making a collection 
of his letters for the amusement of a friend. 
Accordingly he copied an inconsiderable 
number of them into a book, which he pre- 
sented to Robert Riddel, of Glenriddel. Esq. 
Among these was the account of his life, ad- 
dressed to Doctor Mooro, and printed in the 
first volume.* In copying from his imper- 
fect sketches, (it does not appear that he 
had the letters actually sent to his corres- 
pondents before him,) he seems to have oc- 
casionally enlarged his observatioi.s, and al- 
tered his expressions. In such instances his 
emendations have been adopted ; but in truth 
there are but five of the letters thus selected 
by the poet, to be found in the present vo- 
lume, the rest being thought of inferior me- 
rit, or otherwise unfit for the public eye. 

In printing this volume, the editor has 
found some corrections of grammar neces- 
sary; but these have been very few, and 
such as may be supposed to occur in the 
careless effusions, even of literary charac- 
ters, who have not been in the habit of car- 
rying their compositions to the press. These 
corrections have never been extended to any 
habitual modes of expression of the poet, 
even where his phraseology may seem to vio- 
late the delicacies of taste ; or the idiom of 
our language, which he wrote in general 
with great accuracy. Some difference will 
indeed be found in this respect in his earlier 
and in his later compositions ; and this vo- 
lume will exhibit the progress of his style, 
as well as the history of his mind. In the 
fourth edition, several new letters were in- 
troduced, and some of inferior importance 
were omitted. 



* Occupying from page 8 to page 15 of this 
Edition. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



OF 



ROBERT BURNS- 



LKTTERS, &c. 



No. I. 
TO MR. JOHN MURDOCH, 

SCHOOLMASTER, 

STAPLES INN BUILDINGS, LONDON. 
Lochlee, 15th January, 1783. 

Dear Sir, 

As I have an opportunity of sending you 
a letter, without putting you to that expense 
which any production of mine would but ill 
repay, I embrace it with pleasure, to tell you 
that I have not forgotten, nor ever will for- 
get, the many obligations I lie under to your 
kindness and friendship. 

I do not doubt, Sir, but you will wish to 
know what has been the result of all the 
pains of an indulgent father, and a masterly 
teacher ; and I wish I could gratify your cu- 
riosity with such a recital as you would be 
pleased with ; but that is what I am afraid 
will not be the case. I have, indeed, kept 
pretty clear of vicious habits; and in this 
respect, I hope my conduct will not disgrace 
the education I have gotten ; but as a man 
of the world, I am most miserably deficient. 
One would have thought that bred as I have 
been, under a father who has figured pretty 
well as un homme des affaires^ I might have 
been what the world calls a pushing, active 
fellow ; but, to tell you the truth, there is 
hardly any tiling more ray reverse. I seem 
to be one sent into the world to see, and ob- 
serve ; and I very easily compound with the 
knave who tricks me of my money, if there 
be any thing original about him which shows 
me human nature in a different light from 
any thing I have seen before. In short, the 
joy of my heart is to " study men, their man- 
ners, and their ways ;" and for this darling 
object I cheerfully sacrifice every other con- 



sideration. I am quite indolent about those 
great concerns that set the bustling busy 
sons of care agog : and if I have to answer 
for the present hour, I am very easy with re- 
gard to any thing further. Even the last 
worthy shift, of the unfortunate and the 
wretched, does not much terrify me : I know 
that even then my talent for what country- 
folks call " a sensible crack," when once it is 
sanctified by a hoary head, would procure 
me so much esteem, that even then I would 
learn to be happy.* However, I am under 
no apprehensions about that ; for, though in- 
dolent, yet, so far as an extremely delicate 
constitution permits, I am not lazy ; and in 
many things, especially in tavern matters, I 
am a strict economist ; not indeed for the 
sake of the money, but one of the principal 
parts in my composition is a kind of pride of 
stomach, and I scorn to fear the face of any 
man living; above every thing, I abhor, as 
hell, the idea of sneaking in a corner to avoid 
a dun — possibly some pitiful, sordid wretch, 
whom in my heart I despise and detest. 'Tis 
this, and thi.«> alone, that endears economy to 
me. In the matter of books, indeed, I am 
very profuse My favourite authors are of 
the sentimental kind, such as Shenstone, par- 
ticularly his Elegies; Thomson; Man of 
Feeling, a book I prize next to the Bible ; 
Man of the World; Sterne, especially his 
Sentimental Journey; M'Pherson's Ossian, 
^c. These are the glorious models after 
which I endeavour to form my conduct; and 
'tis incongruous, 'tis absurd, to suppose that 
the man whose mind glows with the senti- 
ments lighted up at their sacred flame — the 
man whose heart distends with benevolence 
to all the human race — he *' who can soar 
above this little scene of things," can he de- 
scend to mind the paltry concerns about 

* The last shift alluded to here must he the 
condition of an itinerant bfggar. 



LETTERS. 



81 



which the terrsefilial race fret, and fume, and 
vex tliemselves? O how the glorious tri- 
umph swells my heart! I forget that I am a 
poor insignificant devil, unnoticed and un- 
known, stalking up and down fairs and mar- 
kets, when I happen to be in them, reading a 
page or two of mankind, and " catching the 
manners living as they rise," whilst the men 
of business jostle me on every side as an idle 
incumbrance in their way. But I dare say I 
have by this time tired your patience ; so I 
shall conclude with begging you to give Mrs. 
Murdoch — not my compliments, for that is a 
mere common-place story, but my warmest, 
kindest wishes for her welfare ; and accept 
of the same for yourself, from, 
Dear Sir, 

Your's, i&c. 



No. II. 



The following is taken from the MS. Prose pre- 
sented by our Bard to Mr. Riddel. 

On rummaging over some old papers, I 
lighted on a MS of my early years, in which 
I had determined to write myself out, as 1 
was placed by fortune among a class of men 
to whom my ideas would have been non- 
sense. I had meant that the book should 
have lain by me, in the fond hope that, some 
time or other, even after I was no more, my 
thoughts would fall into the hands of some- 
body capable of appreciating their value. It 
sets off thus : 

Observations, Hints, Songs, Scraps of 
Poetry, ^c. by R. B. — a man who had little 
art in making money, and still less in keep- 
ing it ; but was, however, a man of some 
sense, a great deal of honesty, and unbound- 
ed good will to every creature rational and 
irrational. As he was but little indebted to 
scholastic education, and bred at a plough- 
tail, his performances must be strongly tinc- 
tured with his unpolished rustic way of life ; 
but as I believe they are really his oicn, it 
may be some entertainment to a curious ob- 
server of human nature, to see how a plough- 
man thinks and feels, under the pressure of 
love, ambition, anxiety, grief, with the like 
cares and passions, which, however diversi- 
fied by the modes and manners of life, ope- 
rate pretty much alike, I believe, on all the 
species. 

" There are numbers in the world who do 
not want sense to make a figure, so much as 
an opinion of their own abilities, to put them 
upon recording their observations, and al- 
lowing them the same in.^>ortance, which 
they do to those which appear in print." — 
Shenstone. 



" Pleasing, when youth is long expired, to trace 
The forms our pencil or our pen designed I 

Such was our youthful air, and shape, and face, 
Such the soft iinaae of our youthful mind." 

Ibid, 

April, 1783. 
Notwithstanding all that has been said 
against love, respecting the folly and weak- 
ness it leads a young inexperienced mind in- 
to ; still I think it in a great measure de- 
serves the highest encomiums that have 
been passed upon it. Ifany thing on earth 
deserves the name of rapture or transport, it 
is the feelings of green eighteen, in the com- 
pany of the mistress of his heart, when she 
repays him with an equal return of aifection. 



August. 
There is certainly some connexion be- 
tween love, and music, and poetry ; and 
therefore I have always thought a fine touch 
of nature, that passage in a modern love com- 
position : 

" As tow'rd her cot he jogg'd along, 
Her name was frequent in his song." 

For my own part I never had the least 
thought or inclination of turning poet, till I 
got once heartily in love ; and then rhyme 
and song were, in a manner, the spontaneous 
language of my heart. 

September. 
I entirely agree with that judicious philo- 
sopher, Mr. Smith, in his excellent Theory 
of Moral Sentiments, that remorse is the most 
painful sentiment that can embitter the hu- 
man bosom. Any ordinary pitch of fortitude 
may bear up tolerably well under those cala- 
mities, in the procurement of which we our- 
selves have had no hand ; but when our own 
follies, or crimes, have made us miserable and 
wretched, to bear up with manly firmness, 
and at the same time have a proper peniten- 
tial sense of our misconduct, is a glorious ef- 
fort of self command. 

" Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace. 
That press the soul or wring the mind with an- 
guish. 
Beyond comparison the worst are those 
That to our folly or our guilt we owe. 
In every other circumstance the mind 
Has this to say — ' It was no deed of mine ;' 
But when to all the evils of misfortune 
This sting is added — ' Blame thy foolish self!' 
Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse ; 
The torturing, knawing consciousness of guilt — 
Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others; 
The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us, 
Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin ! 
O burning hell I in all thy store of torments, 
There's not a keener lash ! 
Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart 
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime, 



82 



LETTERS. 



Can reason Hown its agonizing throbs ; 
And, after proper purpose of amendment, 
Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace? 
O happy I happy ! enviable man I 
O glorious magnanimity of soul !" 



March, 1784. 

I have oden observed, in the course of my 
experience of human life, tiiat every man, 
even the worst, has something good about 
him ; though very often nothing else than a 
happy temperament of constitution inclining 
him to this or that virtue. For this reason, 
no man can say in what degree any other 
person, besides himself, can be. with strict 
justice, called icickcd. Let any of the strict- 
est character for regtilarity of conduct among 
us, examine impartially how maiiy vices he 
has never been guilty of, not from any care 
or vigilance, but for want of opportunity, or 
some accidental circumstance intervening ; 
how many of the weaknesses of mankind he 
has escaped, because he was out of the line 
of such temptation ; and, what oflen, if not 
always, weighs more than all the rest, how 
much he is indebted to the world's good opi- 
nion, because the world does not know all. 
I say any man who can thus think, will scan 
the failings, nay, the faults and crimes, of 
mankind around him, with a brother's eye. 

I have often courted the acquaintance of 
that part of mankind commoi.ly known by 
the ordinary phraj^e of blackguards, some- 
times farther than was consistent with the 
safety of my character ; those who, by 
thoughtless prodigality or headstrong pas- 
sions have been driven to ruin Ihough 
disgraced by follies, nay, sometimes " stain- 
ed with guilt, * * * * *»" 
I have yet found among them, in not a few 
instances, some of the noblest virtues, mag- 
nanimity, generosity, disinterested friend- 
ship, and even modesty. 



April. 
As I am what the men of the world, if they 
knew such a man, would call a whimsical 
mortal, I have various sources of pleasure 
and enjoymt rit, which are, in a manner, pe- 
culiar to myself, or some here and there such 
other out-of-the-way person. Such is the 
peculiar pleasure I take in the season of win- 
ter, more than the rest of the year This, I 
believe, may be partly owing to my misfor- 
tunes giving my i.ind a melancholy cast ; 
but there is something even in the 

•' Mighty tempest, and the hoary waste 
Abrupt and deep, stretch'd o'er the buried earth," 

which raises the mind to a serious sublimity, 
favourable to every thing great and noble. 



There is scarcely any earthly object gives 
me more — I do not know if I should call it 
pleasure — but something which exalts me, 
something which enraptures me — than to 
walk in the sheltered side of a wood, or high 
plantation, in a cloudy winter day, and hear 
the stormy wind howling among the trees 
and raving over the plain. It is my best sea- 
son for devotion ; my mind is rapt up in a 
kind of enthusiasm to Him, who in the pom- 
pous language of the Hebrew bard, " walks 
on tiie vvings of the wind." In one of these 
seasons, just after a train of misfortunes, I 
composed the following : 

The wintry west extends his blast, &c. — 

Poems, p. 31. 

Shenstone finely observes, that love verses 
writ without any real passion, are the mo.st 
nauseous of all conceits ; and I have often 
thnuglit that no man can be a proper critic 
of love composition, sxcepthe hirnseli, in one 
or more instances, have been a warm votary 
of this passion. As i have been all along a 
miserable dupe to love, and have been led 
into a thousand weaknesses and follies by it, 
for that reason I put the more confidence in 
my critical skill, in distinguisiiing foppery 
and Conceit from real passion and nature. 
Whether the following song will stand the 
test, i will not pretend to say, because it is 
njy own ; only I can say it was, at the time, 
genuine from the heart. 

Behind 3'on hills, &c. — See Poems. 



I think the whole species of young men 
may be naturally enough divided into two 
grand classes, which 1 shall call the grave 
and the merry ; though, by the by, these 
terms do not with propriety enough express 
my ideas. The grave I shall cast into the 
usual division of those who are goaded on by 
the love of money, and those whose darling 
wish is to make a figure in the world. The 
merry are, the men of pleasure of all deno- 
minations; the j'jvial lads, who have too 
much fire and spirit to have any settled rule 
of action; but, without much deliberation, 
follow the strong impulses of nature : the 
thoughtless, the careless, the indolent — in 
particular he, who, with a happy sweetness 
of natural temper, and a cheerful vacancy of 
thought, steals through life — generally, in- 
deed, in poverty and obscurity ; but poverty 
and obscurity are only evils to him who can 
sit gravely down, and njake a repining com- 
parison between his own situation and that 
of others ; and lastly, to grace the quorum, 
such as are, generally, those whose heads 
are capable of all the towerings of genius, 
and whose hearts are warmed with all the 
delicacy of feeling. 



LETTERS. 



83 



As the grand end of human life is to culti- 
vate an intercourse with that Being to whom 
we owe our life, with every enjoyment that 
can render hfe delightful ; and to maintain 
an integritive conduct towards our fellow- 
creatures ; that 60, by forming piety and vir- 
tue into habit, we may be fit members for 
that society of the pious and the good, which 
reason and revelation teach us to expect be- 
yond the grave ; I do not see that the turn 
of mind and pursuits of any son of poverty 
and obscurity, are in the least more inimical 
to the eacred interests of piety and virtue, 
than the, even lawful, bustling and strainirig 
after the world's riches and honours; audi 
do not see but lliat he may gain Heaven as 
well (which, b}' the by, is no mean consider- 
ation,) who steals through IhQ vale of life, 
amusing himself with every little flower that 
fortune throws in his way ; as he who, strain- 
ing straight forward, and perhaps bespatter- 
ing all about him, gains some of life's Jittle 
eminences ; where, after all, he can only see, 
and be seen, a little more conspicuously than 
w^hat, in the pride of his heart, he is apt to 
term the poor indolent devil he has left be- 
hind him. 



No. m 

TO MR. AIKm. 

The Gentleman to whom the Cotter's Saturday 
JVight is addressed. 



There is a noble sublimity, a heart-melting 
tenderness, in some of our ancient ballads, j 
which show them to be the work of a mas- j 
terly hand; and it has often given me many I 
a heart-ache to reflect, that such glorious old \ 
bards — bards who very probably owed all ! 
their talents to native genius, yet have de- 
scribed the exploits of heroes, the pangs of 
disappointment, and the meltings of love, 
with such fine strokes of nature — that their 
very names (O how mortifying to a bard's 
vanity !) are now buried among the wreck 
of things which were." 

O ye illustrious names unknown ! who 
could feel so sirongly and describe so well ; 
the last, the meanest of the muses' train — 
one who, though far inferior to your flights, 
yet eyes your path, and with trembling wing 
would sometimes soar after you — a poor rus- 
tic bard unknown, pays this sympathetic 
pang to your memory ! Some of you tell us 
with all the charms of verse, that you have 
been unfortunate in the world — unfortunate 
in love ; he too has felt the loss of his little 
fortune, the loss of friends, and, worse than 
all, tho loss of the woman he adored. Like 
you, all his consolation was his muse ; she 
taught him in rustic measures to complain. 
Happy could he have done it with your 
strength of imagination and flow of verse ! 
May the turf l,ie lightly on your bones! and 
may you now enjoy that solace and rest 
which this world rarely gives to the heart 
tuned to all the feelings of poesy and love ! 

This is all worth quoting in myMSS.and 
more than all. R. B. 

34 



Ayrshire, 1786. 



Sir, 



I was with Wilson, my printer, t'other 
day, and settled all our by-gone matters be- 
tween us. After I had paid him all de- 
mands, I made him the offer of the second 
edition, on the hazard of being paid out of 
\\\Q. first and readiest, which he declines. 
By his accpunt, the paper of a thousand co- 
pies would cost about twenty-seven pounds, 
and the printing about fifteen or sixteen; he 
offers to agree to this for the printing, if I 
will advance for the paper ; but this, you 
know, is out of my power, so farewell hopes 
of a second edition till I grow richer ! an 
epocha, which,. I think, will arrive at the 
payment of the Brilish national debt. 

There is scarcely any thing hurts me so 
much in being disa,ppointed of ray second 
edition, as not having it in my power to show 
my gratitude to Mr. Ballantyne, by publish- 
ing my poem of The Brigs of Ayr. I would 
detest myself as a wretch, if I thought I were 
capable, in a very long life, of forgetting the 
honest, warm, and tender delicacy with 
which he enters into my interests. I am 
sometimes pleased with myself in my grate- 
ful sensations; but 1 believe, on the whole, 
I have very little merit in it, as my gratitude 
is not a virtue, the consequence of reflection, 
but sheerly the instinctive emotion of a heart 
too inattentive to allow worldly maxima and 
views to settle into selfish habits. 

I have been feeling all the various rotations 
and movements within, respecting the ex- 
cise. There are many things plead strongly 
against it, the uncertainty of getting soon in- 

i to business, the consequences of my follies, 
which may perhaps make it impracticable 
for me to stay at home ; and besides, I have 
for some time been pining under secret 
wretchedness, from causes which you pretty 

1 well know — the pang of disappointment, the 
sting of pride, with some wandering stabs of 

i remorse, which never fail to settle on my vi- 
tals like vultures, when attention is not called 
away by (he calls of society, or the vagaries 
of the muse. Even in the hour of social 
mirth, my gayety is the madness of an intox- 
icated criminal under the hands of the exe- 
cutioner. All ihfcse reasons urge me to go 
abroad; and to all these reasons I have only 
one answer — the feelings of a father. This, 
in the present n.ood I am in, overbalances 
every thing that can be laid in the scale 
aorainst it. 



84 



LETTERi5. 



You may perhfips think it an extravagant 
fancy, but it is a sentiment which strikes 
home to my very soul; though sceptical in 
some points ofour current belief, yet, I think, 
I have every evidence for the reality of a life 
beyond the stinted bourn ofour present exist- 
ence ; if so, theti how should I, in the pre- 
sence of that tremendous Being, the Author 
of existence, how should 1 meet the reproach- 
es of those who stand to ine iu 'Aie dear rela- 
tion of children, whom I desviied in the 
smiling innocency of helpless iitfancy ? O 
thou great, unknown Power ! thou Almighty 
God! who has lighted up rer:> n in my 
breast, and blessed me with immortality'! I 
have frequently wandered from that order 
and regularity necessary for the perfection 
of thy works, yet thou has never left me nor 
forsaken me. 



Since I wrote the foregoing sheet, I have 
seen sornething of the storm of mischief 
thickening over my folly-devoted head. — 
Should you, my friends, my benefactors, be 
successful in your applications for me, per- 
haps it may not be in my power in that way 
to reap the fruit of your friendly .efforts. 
What I have written in the preceding pages 
is the settled tenor of my present resolution ; 
but should inimical circumstances forbid me 
closing with your kind offer or enjoying it, 
only threaten to entail iarther misery — 



To tell the truth, I have little reason for 
complaint, as the world, in general, has been 
kind to me, fully up to my deserts. I was, 
for some time past, fast getting into the pin- 
ing, distrustful snarl of the misanthrope. I 
saw myself alone, unfit for the struggle of 
life, shrinking at every rising cloud in the 
chance-directed atmosphere of fortune, while, 
all defenceless, I looked about in vain for a 
cover. It never occurred to me, at least ne- 
ver with the force it deserved, that this 
world is a busy scene, and man a creature 
destined for a progressive struggle ; and that 
however I might pos^iess a warm heart, and 
inoffensive manners, (which last, by the by, 
was rather more than I could well boast) 
still, more than these passive qualities, there 
was something to be done. When all my 
school-fellows and youthful compeers (those 
misguided few excepted who joined, to use a 
Gentoo phrase, the hallacho/esof the human 
race,) were striking off with eager hope and 
earnest intention some one or other of the 
many paths of busy life, I was standing ' idle 
in the market-place,' or only left the chase 
«f the butterfly from flower to flower, to hunt 
fancy from whim to whim. 



You see, Sir, that if to know one's errors 
were a probability of mending them. I stand 



a fair chance, but, according to the reverend 
Westminster divines, though conviction must 
precede conversion, it is very far from al- 
ways implying it.- 



No. IV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP OF DUNLOP. 

Ai^rshire, 1786. 
Madam, 

I AM truly sorry I was not at home yes- 
tordav when I was so much honoured with 
your order for my copies, and incomparably 
more so by the handsome compliments you 
are pleased to pay my poetic abilities. I am 
fully persuaded that there is not any class of 
mankind. so feelingly alive to the titillations 
<>f applause, as the sons of Parnassus ; nor is. 
it easy to conceive how the heart of the poor 
bard dances with rapture, when those whose 
character in life gives them a right to be po- 
lite judges, honour him with their approba- 
tion. ■ Had you beeu thoroughly acquainted 
•with me, Madam, you could ni/t have touched 
my darling heart-chord more sweetly than by 
noticing my attempts to celebrate your illus- 
trious ancestor, the Saviour of his Country. 

'« Great patriot hero! ill-requited chief!" 

The first book I met v/ith in my early years, 
which I perused with pleasure, was The Life 
of fiannibal ; the next was Thv. History of 
Sir fVilliam Wallace ; for several of my ear- 
lier years I had few other authors ; and many 
a solitary hour have i stole out, after the la- 
borious vocations of the day, to shed a tear 
over their glorious but unfortunate stories. 
In those boyish days I remember in particu- 
lar being struck with that part of Wallace's 
story where these lines occur: — 

" Syne to the Leglen wood,- when it was late, 
To make a silent and a safe retreat." 

I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only 
day my line of life allowed, and walked half 
a dozen of miles to pay my respects to tho 
Leglen wood, with as much devout enthusi- 
asm as ever pilgrim did to Loretto ; and, as 
I explored every den and dell where I could 
suppose my heroic countryman to have lodged, 
I recollect (for even then f was a rhymer,) 
that my heart glowed with a wish to be able 
to make a song on him in some measure 
equal to his merits. 



* This letter was evidently written under the 
distress of mind occasioned by our Poet's sepa- 
ration from Mrs. Burns. 



LETTERS. 



85 



No. V. 

TO MRS. STEWART, OF STAIR. 

1786. 
Madam, 
The hurry of my preparations forgoing 
abroad has hindered nae from performing my 
promise 6o soon as I intended I have here 
sent you a parcel of songs, &c. which have 
never made their appsarance, except to a 
friend or two at most. Perhaps some of them 
may be no great entertainment to you ; but 
of that I am tar from being an adequate judo-e. 
The song to the tun^ of Ettrick Banks, you 
will easily see the impropriety of exposing 
much*, even in manuscript. I think, myself, 
it has some merit, both as a tolei able descrip- 
tion of one of Nature's sweetest scenes, a 
July evening, and one of the finest pieces of 
Nature's workmanship, the finest, indeed, 
we know any thing of, an amiable, beautiful 
young woman ;* but I have no common 
friend to procure me that permission, with- 
out which I would not dare to spread the 
'copy. 

T am quite .aware, Madam, what task the 
world would assign me in this letter. The 
obscure hard, when any of the great conde- 
scend to take notice of him, should heap the 
altar with the incense of flattery. Their 
high ancestry, their ov/n great and godlike 
qualities and actions, should be recounted 
with the most exaggerated description. This, 
Madam, is a task for which I am altogether 
unfit. Besides a certain disqualifying pride 
of heart, I know nothing of your connexions 
in life, and have no access to where your 
real character is to be found — the company 
of your compeers; and more, I am afraid 
that even the most refined adulation is by no 
means the road to your good opinion. 

One feature of your character I shall ever 
with grateful pleasure remember — the re- 
ception I got when 1 Jiad the honour of wait- 
ing on you at Stair I am little acquainted 
with politeness ; but I know a gOod deal of 
benevolence nf temper and goodness of heart. 
Surely, did those in exalted stations know 
how happy they could make some classes of 
their inferiors by condescension and affabili- 
ty, they would never stand so high, measur- 
ing out with every look the height of tlteir 
elevation, but condescend as sweetly as did 
Mrs. Stewart of Stair. 



No. VI. 



Nature, bearing date the twenty-fifth day of 
January, Anno Domini one thousand seven 
hundred and fifty-nine,* Poet Laureat and 
Bard in Chief in and over the districts anrf 
Counties of Kyle, Cunningham, and Car- 
rick, of old extent. To our trusty and well- 
beloved William Chalmers and John M' Adam, 
Students and Practitioners in the ancient and 
mysterious science of Confounding Right and 
Wrong. 

Right Trusty, 

Be it known unto you. That whereas, in 
the course of our care and watchings over 
the Order and Police of all and sundry the 
Manufacturers, Retainers, and Venders of 
Poesy ; Bards, Poets, Poetasters, Rhymers, 
Jinglers, Songsters, Ballad-singers, &c.,&c., 
&c., &c., &c., male and female — We have 
discovered a certain * . * *, nefarious, 
abominable, and Wicked Song, or Ballad, a 
copy whereof We have here enclosed ; Our 
Will theretoie is, that Ye pilch upon and 
appoint the most execrable Individual of that 
most execrable Species, known by the ap- 
pellation, phrase, and nickname of The 
Deil's YelJ Nowte ;t and, after having caused 
hira to kindle a fire at the Cross of Ayr, ye 
shall at noontide of the day, put into the said 
wretch's merciless hands the said copy of the 
said nefarious and wicked Song, to be con- 
sumed by fire in the presence of all Behold- 
ers, in abhorrence of, and terrorum to, all 
such Compositions and Composers. And 
this in nowi;--e leave ye undone, but have it 
executed in every point as this Our Mandate 
bears before the twenty-fourth current^ when 
In Person we iiope to applaud your faithful- 
ness and 7.eal. 

Given at Mauchline, this twentieth day of 
November, Anno Domini one thousand se- 
ven hundred and eighty-six.| 
! God save the Bard ! 



In the name of the Nine. Amen. We 
Robert Burns, by virtue of a Warrant from 

* The song enclosed is the one beginning, 
'Tvvas even— the dewy fields were green, &c. 

S'r Pcom, p. 106. 



No. VII. 

DR. BLACKLOCK 

TO THE REVEREND MR. G. 
LOWRIE. 

Reverend and Dear Sir, 

I OUGHT to have acknowledged your fa- 
vour long ago, not only as a testimony of 
3-our kind remembrance, but as it gave me 
an opportunity of sharing one of the firiest,. 
and, perhaps, one of the most genuine enler- 

*■ His birth-day. 
■\ Old Bachelors. 

\ P'nclosed was the ballad, probably Holy WiU 
Ue\s Prayer, E. 



86 



LETTERS. 



tainments, of which the human mind is sus- 
ceptible. A number of avocations retarded 
my progress in reading the poems j at last, 
liowever, I have finished that pleasing pe- 
rusal. Many instances have I seen of Na- 
ture's force and beneficence exerted under 
numerous and formidable disadvantages ; but 
none equal to that with which you have been 
kind enough to present me There is a pa- 
thos and delicacy in his serious poems, a vein 
of wit and humour in those of a more festive 
turn, which cannot be too much admired, nor 
too warmly approved ; and I think 1 shall 
never open thfe book without feeling my as- 
tonishment renewed and increased. It was 
my wish to have expressed my approbation 
in verse ; but whether from declining life, or 
a temporary depression of spirits, it is at pre- 
sent out of my power to accomplish that 
agreeable intention. 

Mr. Stewart, Professor of Morals in this 
University, had formerly read me three of 
the poems, and I had desired him to get my 
name inserted among the subscribers ; but 
whether this was done or not I never could 
learn. I have little intercourse with Dr. 
Blair, but will take care to have the poems 
communicated to him by the intervention of 
some mutual friend. It has been told me by 
a Gentleman, to whom I showed the per- 
formances, and who sought a copy with dili- 
gence and ardour, that the whole impression 
is already exhausted. It were, therefore, 
much to be wished, for the sake of the young 
man, that a second edition, more numerous 
than the former, could immediately be print- 
ed; as it appears certain that its intrinsic me- 
rit, and the exertions of the author's friends, 
might give it a more universal circulation 
than any thing of the kind which has been 
published within my memory.* 



No. VIII. 

FROM THE REVEREND MR. 
LOWRIE. 

22d December, 1786. 

D£^R Sir, 

I T.AST week received a letter from Dr 
Blacklock, in which he expresses a desire of 
seeing you. I write this to you, that you may 



* The reader will perceive that this is the let- 
ter which produced the determination of our Bard 
to give up his scheme of going to the West Indies, 
and to try the fate of a new Edition of his Poems 
in Edinburgh. A copy of this letter was sent by 
Mr. Lowrie to Mr. G. Hamilton, and by him 
communicated to Burns, among whose papers it 
was found. ; 

^ For an account of Mr. Lowrie and his family, 
s8* the letter of Gilbert Burns fo the Editor. 



lose no time in waiting upon him, should y oil 
not yet have seen him. 



I rejoice to hear, from all corners, of your 
rising fame, and I wish and expect it may 
tower still higher by the new publication- 
But, as a friend, I warn you to prepare to 
meet with your share of detraction and envy 
— a train that always accompany great men. 
For your comfort I am in great hopes that 
the number of your friends and admirers will 
increase, and that you have some chance of 
ministerial, or even * * * * patronage. 
Now, my friend, such rapid success is very 
uncommon : and do you think yourself in no 
danger of suffering by applause and a full 
purse .'' Remember Solomon's advice, which 
he spoke from experience, " stronger is he 
that conquers," &c. Keep fast hold of your 
rural simplicity and purity, like Telemachus, 
by Mentor's aid in Calypso's isle, or even in 
that of Cyprus. I hope yor£ have also Mi- 
nerva with you. I need not tell you how 
much a modest diffidence and invincible tem- 
perance adorn the most shining talents, and 
elevate the mind, and exalt and refine the " 
imagination, even cf a poet. 

I hope you will not imagine I speak from 
suspicion or evil report. 1 assure you I speak 
from love and good report, and good opinion, 
and a strong desire to see you shine as much 
in the sunshine as you have done in the 
shade ; and in the practice, as you do in the 
theory of virtue. This is my prayer in re- 
turn for your elegant composition in verse. 
All here join in compliments and good wishes 
for your further prosperity. 



No. IX. 
TO MR. CHALMERS. 

Edinburgh, Q7ih Dec. 1786, 

My dear Friend, 

I CONFESS I have sinned the sin for 
which there is hardly any forgiveness — in- 
gratitude to friendship — in not writing you 
sooner; but of all men living, I had intended 
to send you an entertaining letter , and by 
all the plodding stupid powers that in nocl- 
ding conceited majesty preside over the dull 
routine of business — a heavily solemn oath 
this ! — I am, arid have been ever since I came 
to Edinburgh, as unfit to write a letter of hu- 
mour, as to write a commentary on the Re- 
velations. 



To make you some amends for what, be- 
fore you reach this paragraph, you will have 



LETTERS. 



87 



suffered, I enclose yoii two poems I have 
carded and spun since I passed Glenbuck. 
One blank in the address to Edinburgh. 

" FairB r-," is the heavenly Miss Burnet, 

daughter to Lord Monboddo, at whose house 
1 had the honour to be n'lore than once. — 
There has not been any thing n'3arly like her, 
in all the consummations of beauty, grace, 
and goodness, the great Creator has formed, 
since Milton's Eve on the first day of her 
existence. 

I have sent you a parcel of subscription 
bills; and have written to Mr. Ballantyne 
and Mr. Aiken, to call on you for some of 
them, if they want them. My direction is — 
care of Andrew Bruce, Merchant, Bridge- 
street. 



No. X. 
TO THE EARL OF EGLINTON. 

Edinburgh, January, 1787. 

My lord. 

As I have but slender pretensions to phi- 
losophy, I cannot rise to the exalted ideas of 
a citizen of the world ; but have ail those na- 
tional prejudices which, I believe, grow pecu- 
liarly strong in the breast of a Scotchman. 
There is scarcely any thing to which I am so 
feelingly alive ; as the honour and welfare 
of my country; and, as a poet, I have no 
higher enjoyment than singing her sons and 
daughters. Fate had cast my station in the 
veriest shades of life; but never did a heart 
pant more ardently than mine, to be distin- 
guished; though till very lately, I looked in 
vain on every side for a ray of light. It is 
easy, then, to guess how much I was grati- 
fied with the countenance and approbation of 
one of m.y country's most illustrious sons, 
when Mr. Wauchope called on me yester- 
day on the part of your Lordship.- Your mu- 
nificence, my Lord, certainly deserves my 
very grateful acknowledgments; but your 
patronage is a bounty peculiarly suited to my 
feelings. I am not master enough of the eti- 
quette of life, to know whether there be not 
som», impropriety in troubling your Lord- 
ship with my thanks ; but my heart whisper- 
ed me to do it. From the emotions of my 
inmost soul I do it. Selfish ingratitude, I 
hope, I am incapable of; and mercenary ser- 
vility, I trust I shall ever have so much ho- 
nest pride as to detest. 



No. XL 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh^ Ibth January, 1787. 
Madam, 

Yours of the 9th current, which I am 
this moment honoured with, is a deep re- 



proach to me for ungrateful neglect. I will 
tell you the real truth, for I am miserably 
awkward at a fib; I wished to have written 
to Dr. Moore before I wrote to you ; but 
though, every day since I received yours of 
December 3 fth,tiie idea, the wish to write to 
him, has constantly pressed on my thoughts, 
yet I could not for my soul set about it. I 
know his fame and character, and I am one 
of " the sons of little men." To write him a 
mere matter-of-fact affair, like a merchant's 
order, would be disgracing the little charac- 
ter I have; and to write the author of The 
View of Society and Manners a letter of sen- 
timent — I declare every artery runs cold at 
the thought. I shall try, however, to write 
to him to-morrow or next day. His kind in- 
terposition in my behalf I have already ex- 
perienced, as a gentleman waited on me the 
other day on the part of Lord Eglinton, 
with ten guineas, by way of subscription for 
two copies of my next edition. 

The word you object to in the mention I 
have made of my glorious countryman and 
your immortal ancestor, is indeed borrowed 
from Thomson ; but it does not strike me as 
an improper epithet. I distrusted my own 
judgment on your' finding fault with it, and 
applied for the opinion of some of the literati 
here, who honour me with their critical stric- 
tures, and they all allow it to be proper. The 
song you ask I cannot recollect, and I have 
not a copy of it. I have not composed any 
thing on the great Wallace, except what you 
have seen in print, and the inclosed, which I 
will print in this edition.* You will see I 
have mentioned some others of the name. 
When I composed my Vision long ago, I at- 
tempted a description of Koyle, of which the 
additional stanzas are a part, as it originally 
stood. My heart glows with a wish to be 
able to do justice to the merits of the Saviour 
of his Country, which, sooner or later, I shall 
at least attempt. 

You are afraid I shall grow intoxicated 
with my prosperity as a poet. Alas ! Ma- 
dam, I know myself and the world too well. 
I do not mean any airs of affected modesty ; 
I am willing to believe that my abilities de- 
serve some notice ; but in a most enlight- 
ened, informed age, and nation, when poetry 
is and has been the study of men of the first 
natura:l genius, aided with all the powers of 
polite learning, polite books, and polite com- 
pany — to be dragged forth to the full glare of 
learned and polite observation, with all my 
imperfections of awkward rusticity and crude 
unpolished ideas on my head — I assure you, 
Madam, I do not dissemble when I tell you I 
tremble for the consequences. The novelty 



* Stanzas in the Vision^ beginning *' By state- 
ly tower or palace fair," and ending with the first 
Duan. E. 



88 



LETTERS, 



of a poet in iny obscure situation, without 
any of those advantages which are reckoned 
necessary for that character, at least at this 
time of day, has raised a partial tide of public 
notice, which has borne' t,e to a height where 
I am absolutely, feelingly certain, my abili- 
ties are inadequate to support me ; and too 
gurely do I see that lime when that same 
tide will lejive mb, and recede, perhaps, as 
far below the mark of truth. I do not say 
this in the ridiculous afFcctation of self-abase- 
ment and modesty. I have studied myself, 
and know what ground I occupy ; and, how- 
ever afnend of the world may ditfer from me 
in that particular, I stand for my own opi- 
nion in silent resolve, with all the tenacious- 
ness of property. I mention this to you, 
once for all, to disburden my mind, and I do 
not wish to hear or say more about it. But 

" When proud fortune's ebbing tide recedes," 

you will bear me witness^ that, when my 
bubble of fame was at the highest, I stood, 
iinintoxicated, with the inebriating cup in 
my hand, looking forward with rueful resolve 
to the hastening time when the blow of ca- 
lumny should dash it to th« ground, with all 
the eagerness of vengeful triumph. 



Your patronising me, and interesting your- 
self in my fame and character as a poet, I 
rejoice in ; it exalts me in my own idea ; and 
whether vou can or can^ otaid me in my sub- 
scription is a trifle. Has a paltry subscrip 
tion-bill any charms to the heart of a bard, 
compared with the patronage of the descend- 
ant of the immortal Wallace ? 



No. XII. 
TO DR. MOORE. 



1787. 



Sir, 



Mrs. Donlop has been so liind as to 
send me extracts of letters she has had from 
you, where you do the rustic bard the honour 
of noticing* him and his works. Those who 
have felt the anxieties and solicitude of au- 
thorship, can only know what pleasure it gives 
to be noticed in such a manner by judges of 
the first character. Your criticisms. Sir, I 
receive with reverence ; only I am sorry they 
mostly came too late ; a peccant passage or 
two, that I would certainly have altered, 
were gone to the press. 

The hope to be admired for ages is, in by 
far the greater part of those even who were 
authors of repute, an unsubstantial dream. 
For my part, ray first ambition was, and still 
my strongest wish is,, to please my compeers, 



the rustic inmates of the hamlet, while ever- 
changing language and manners shall allow 
me to be relished and understood. I an) very 
w'illii7g to admit that I have some poetical 
abilities; and as few, if any writers, either 
moral or political, are intimately acquainted 
with the classes of mankind among' whom I 
have chiefly mingled, 1 may have seen men 
and manners in a different phasis from what 
is common, which may assist originality of 
thought Still I know very well the novelty 
of my character has by far the greatest 
share in the learned and polite not ce I have 
lately had ; and in a language where Pope 
and Churchill have raised the laugh, and 
Shenstoneand Gray drawn the tear-rwhere 
Thomson and Beattie have painted the land- 
8< ape, and Lyttleton and Collins described 
the heart, I am not vain enough to hope for 
distinguished poetic fame. 



No. XIII. 
FROM DR. MOORE. 

Clifford-street, January 23fZ, 178' 



Sir, 



T HAVE just received your letter, by 
which I find 1 hnve reason to complain of 
my friond Mrs. Dunlop, for transmitting to 
y u extracts from my letters to her, by much 
too freely and too carelessly written for your 
perusal, I must forgive her, however, in 
considerati. n of her good intention, as you 
will forgive me, I hope, for the freedom I use 
with certain expressions, in consideration of 
my admiration of the poems in general. Ifl 
may judge of the author'^ disposition from 
his works, with all the good qualities of a 
poet, he has not the irritable temper ascribed 
to that race of men by one of their own num- 
ber, whom you have the happiness to resem- 
ble in ease and curious fclicitt, of expression. 
Indeed the poetical beauties, however origi- 
nal and brilliant, and lavishly scattered, are 
not all I admire in your works; the love of 
your native country, that feeling sensibility 
to all the olijects of humanity, and the inde- 
pendent spirit which breathes throu^li the 
whole, give me a most favourable impression 
of the poet, and have made me often regret 
that I. did not see the poems, the certain ef- 
fect of which would have been my seeing the 
author last summer, when I was longer in 
Scotland than I have been for many years. 

I rejoice very sincerely at the encourage- 
ment you receive at Edinburgh, and I think 
you peculiarly fortunate in the patronage of 
Dr Blair, who I am informed interests Him- 
self very much for you. I beg to be remem- 
bered to him : nobody can have a warmer 
regard for that gentleman than I have, which, 
independent of tlie worth of his character. 



LETTERS. 



89 



would be kept alive by the memory of our 
common friend, the late Mr. George B e. 

Before I received your letter, I sent in- 
closed in a letter to , a sonnet b\ Miss 

Williams a young- poetical lady, which slie 
wrote on reading your Mountain-Daisy ; 
perhaps it may not displease you.* 

I have been trying to add to the number 
of your subscribers, but find many of my 
acquaintance are alrfrady among them. I 
have only to add, that with every sentiment 
of esteem and the most eordial good wishes, 

I am, 
Your obedient, humble servant, 
J. MOORE. 



No. XIV. 

TO THE REV. G. LOWRIE, OF NEW- 
MILLS, NE^R KILMARNOCK. 

Edinhurgh, 6th Feb. 1787. 

Reverend and Dear Sir, 

When I look at the date of your kind 
letter, my heart reproaches me severely with 
ingratitude in neglecting so long to answei 
it. I will not trouble you with any account, 
by way oi apology, of my hurried life and 
distracted attention : do me the justice to 
believe that my delay by no means proceeded 
from want of respect. I feel, and ever shall 
feel, for you, the mingled sentiments of 
esteem for a friend, and reverence for a father. 

I thank you. Sir, with all my soul, for your 
friendly hints ; though I do not need them 
so much as my friends are apt to imagine. 
You are dazzled with newspaper accounts and 
distant reports ; but in reality, I have no great 
temptation to be intoxicated with the cup of 
prosperity Novelty may attract the atten- 
tion of mankind a while ; to it 1 owe my 
present eclat ; but I see tne time not far dis-* 
tant, when the popular tide, which has borne 
me to a height of which I am perhaps un- 



* The Sonnet is as follows : 

Whilesoon"thegarden'sflauntingflow'rs" decay, 

And scatter'd on the earth neglected lie, 
The " Mountain-Daisy," cherish'd by the ray 

A poet drew irom heaven, shall never die. 
Ah ! like the lonely flower the poet rose ! 

'Mid penury's bare soil and bitter gale : 
He fell each storm that on the mountain blows, 

Nor ever knew the shelter of the vale. 
By genius in her native vigour nursed, 

On nature with impassion'd look he gazed, 
Then through the cloud of adverse fortune burst 

Indignant, and in light unborrow'd blazed. 
Scotia ! from rude afflictions shield thy bard, 
His heaven-taught numbers Fame herself will 
guard. 



worthy, shall recede with silent celerity, and 
leave me a barren waste of sand, to descend 
at my leisure to my former station. I do not 
say this in the alTecta'tion of inod^esty ; I see 
the consequence is unavoidable, and am pre- 
pared for it. I had been at a good deal of 
pains to form a just, impartial estimate of my 
ii.tellectual powers, before I came here ; I 
have noi. added, since I came to Edinburgh, 
any thing to the account ; and I trust I shall 
take every atom of it back to my shades, the 
coverts of my unnoticed, early years. 

In Dr. Blacklock, whom I see very often, 
1 have found, what I would have expected in 
our fritnd, a clear head and an excellent heart. 

By far the most agreeable hours I spend 
in Edinburgh must be placed to the accoimt 
of Miss Lowrie and her piano-forte. I can- 
not help repeating to you and Mrs. Lowrie a 
compliment that Mr. Mackenzie, the cele- 
brated " Man of Feeling," paid to Miss 
Lowrie, the other night, at the concert. I 
had come in at the interlude, and sat down 
by him, till I saw Miss Lowrie in a seat not 
very far distant, and went up to pay my res- 
pects to her. On my return to Mr. Macken- 
zie, he asked me who she was ; I told him 
'twas the daughter of a reverend friend of 
mine in the west country. He returned. 
There' was something very striking, to his 
idea, in her appearance. On my desirmg to 
know what it was, he was> pleased to say, 
" She has a great deal of the elegance of a 
well-bred .lady about her, with all the sweet 
simplicity of a country-girl." 

My compliments to all the happy inmates 
of Saint Margarets. 

I am, dear Sir, 

Yours most gratefully, 

ROBT. BURNS. 



Sir, 



No. XV. 
TO DR. MOORE. 

Edinburgh, 15th February, 1787. 



Pardon my seeming neglect in delaying 
so long to acknowledge the honour you have 
done me, in your kind notice of me, January 
23d. Not many months ago, I knew no other 
employment than following the plough, nor 
could boast any thing higher than a distant 
acquaintance with a count/y clergyman. 
Mere greatness never embarrasses me ; I 
have nothing to ask from the great, and I do 
not fear their judgment; but genius, polished 
by learning, and at its proper point of eleva- 
tion in the eye of the world, this of late T 
frequently meet with, and tremble at its ap- 



90 



LETTERJ5. 



proach I scorn the affectation of seeming | 
modesty to cover self-conceit. That I have 
some merit, I do not deny ; but I see, with 
frequent wringings of heart, that the novelty 
of my character, and the honest national 
prejudice of my countrymen, have borne me 
to a height altogether untenable to my abili- 
ties. 

For the honour Miss W. has done me, 
please, Sir, return her, in my name, my most 
grateful thanks. I have more than once 
thought of paying her in kind, but have 
hitherto quitted the idea in hopeless despon- 
dency. I had never befof e heard of her ; 
but the other day I got her poems, which, 
for several reasons, some belongfing to the 
head, tind others the offspring of the heart, 
gave me a great deal of pleasure. T have 
httle pretensions to critic lore : there are, I 
think, two characteristic features in her 
poetry— the unfettered wild flight of native 
genius, and the querulous, sombre tenderness 
of time settled sorrow. 

I only know whatpleases me, often without 
being able to tell why. 



I am happy to hear that your subscription 
is so ample, and shall rejoice at every piece of 
good fortune that befalls you, for you are a 
very great favourite in my family ; and this 
is a higher compliment than, perhaps, you 
areaware of It includes almost all the pro- 
fessions, and, of course, is a proof that your 
writings are adapted to various tastes and 
situations. My youngest son, who is at Win- 
chester School, writes to me that he is trans- 
lating some stanzas of your Hotloio E'en into 
Latin verse, for the benefit of his comrades. 
This union of taste partly proceeds, no doubt, 
from the cement of Scottish partiality, with 
which theyare all somewhat tinctured. Even 
your translator^ who left Scotland too early 
in life for recollection, is not without it. 



I remain, with great sincerity, 
Your obedient servant, 

J. MOORE. 



No. XVI. 
FROM DR. MOORE. 

Clifford-Street, 28th February, 1787. 

Dear Sir, 

Your letter of the I5th gave me a great 
deal of pleasure. It is not surprising that 
you improve in correctness and taste, con- 
sidering where you have been for some time 
past. And I dare swear there is no danger 
of your .admitting any poli.sh which might 
weaken the vigour of your native powers. 

I am glad to perceive that you disdain the 
nauseous affectation of decrying your own 
merit as a poet, an affectation which is dis- 
played with most ostentation by those who 
have the greatest share of self-conceit, and 
which only adds undeceiving falsehood to 
disgusting vanity. For you to deny the merit 
of your poems, would be arraigning the fixfed 
qpinion of the public. 

As the new edition of mv Vie7o of Society 
is not yet ready, I have sent you the former 
edition, which 1 beg you will accept as a 
small mark of my esteem. It is sent by sea 
to the care of Mr. Creech ; and along with 
these four volumes for yourself, I have also 
sent my Medical Sketches, in one volume, for 
ray friend Mrs Dunlop, of Dunlop: this 
you will be so obliging as to transmit, or, if 
you chance to pass soon by Dunlop, to give 
to her. 



NO. XVII. 

TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN, 

Edinburgh, 1787. 
My Lord, 

I wanted to purchase a profile of your 
Lordship, which I was told was to be got in 
town : but I am truly sorry to see that a blun- 
dering painter has spoiled a " human face 
divine." The enclosed stanzas I intended to 
have written below a pHcture or profile of 
your Lordship, could I have been so happy as 
to procure one with any thing of a likeness 

As I will soon return to my shades, I wanted 
to have something like a material object for 
my gratitude ; 1 wanted to have it in my 
power to say to a friend, There is my noble 
patron, my' generous benefactor. Allow me, 
my Lord, to publish these verses. I conjure 
your Lordship, by the honest throe of grati- 
tude, by the generous wish of benevolence, 
by all the powers and feelings which compose 
the magnanimous mind, do not deny me this 
petition* I owe much to your Lordship; 
and, vvhat has not in some other instances 
always been the case with me, the weight of 
the obligation is a pleasing load. I trust I 
have a heart as independent as your Lord- 
ship's, than which I can say nothing more : 
and I would not be beholden to favours that 
would crucify my feelings. Your dignified 
character in life, and manner of supporting 
that character, are flattering to my pride ; 



*It does not appear tliat the Farl granted this 
request, nor have the verses alluded to been found 
among the M.'^S. E. 



LETTERS. 



01 



and I would be jealous of die purity of my 
grateful attachment where I was under the 
patronage of one of the much-favoured sons 
of fortune. 

Almost every poet has celebrated his pa- 
trons, particularly when they were names 
dear to fame, and illustrious in their country ; 
allow me, then, my Lord, if you think the 
verses have intrinsic merit, to tell the world 
how much I have the honour to be. 

Your Lordship's highly indebted, 
and ever trrateful humble servant. 



No. XVII I. 
TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

My Lord, 

The honour your Lordship has done me, 
fay your notice and advice in yours of the 1st 
instant, I shall ever gratefully remember : 

" Praise from thy lips 'tis mine \vit!i joy to boast, 
They best can give it wlio deserve it most." 

Your Lordship touches the darling chord 
of my heart, when you advise me to fire my 
muse at Scottish story and Scottish scenes. 
I wish for nothing more than to make a lei- 
surely pilgrimage through my native coun- 
try : to sit and muse on those once hard-con- 
tended fields where Caledonia, rejoicing, saw 
her bloody lion borne through broken ranks 
to victory and fame ,: and catching- the in- 
spiration, to pour the deathless names in song. 
But, my Lord, in the midst of these enthu- 
siastic reveries, a long-visaged, dry, moral- 
looking phantom strides across my imagina- 
tion, and pronounces these emphatic words: 

" I, wisdom, dwell with prudence. Friend, 
1 do not come to open the ill-closed wounds 
of your follies and misfortunes, merely to 
give you pain ; I wish through these wounds 
to imprint a lasting lesson on your heart. 1 
will not mention how many of my salutary 
advices you have despised ; I have given you 
line upon line, and precept upon precept ; 
and whilelwaschalkiiigouttoyouthc straight 
vvay to wealth and character, with audacious 
effrontery, you have zig-zag<red across the 
path, contemning me to my face ; you know 
the consequences. It is not yet three months 
since home was so hot for you, that you were 
on the wing for the western shore of the 
Atlantic, not to make a fortune, but to hide 
your misfortune. 

" Now that your dear-loved Scotia puts it 
in your power to return to the situation of 
your forefathers, will you follow these Will- 
o'-Wisp meteors of fancy and whim, till they 

35 



bring you once more to the brink of ruin ? 
I grant tliat the utmost ground you can oc- 
cupy is but half a stop from the veriest po- 
verty ; but still it is half a step from it. If 
all that I can urge be ineffectual, let her who 
seldom calls to you in vain, let the call of 
pride, prevail with you. You know how you 
feel at the iron grip of ruthless oppression : 
you' t now how you bear the galling sneer of 
contui^ielious greatness. I hold you out the 
conveniences, the comforts of life, independ- 
ence and character, on the one hand ; I ten- 
der you servility, dependence, and wretched- 
ness, on the other, I willnot insult your under- 
standing by bidding you make a choice."* 

This, my Lord, is unanswerable. I must 
return to my humble station, and woo my 
rustic muse in my wonted way at the plough- 
tail. Still, my Lord, while the drops of life 
warm my heart, gratitude to that dear loved 
country in which 1 boast my birth, and grati- 
tude to those her distinguished sons, who 
have honoured me so much with their patron- 
age and approbation, shall, while stealing 
through my humble shades, ever distend my 
bosom, at times, as now, draw forth the swel- 
Vincr tear. 



No. XLX. 

Ext. Trnperty in favour of !\Ir. Robert Bin-ns, to 
erect and keep up a Headstone in memory of 
Poet I'ergusson, 1787. 



Session-house icithin the Kirk of Canon- 
gate, the twenty-second day of Febru- 
ary, one thousand seten hundred and 
eighty-seven years. 

SEDERUNT OF THE M-iNAGERS OF THE KIRK 
AND KIRK-YAKD FUNDS OF CANONGATE. 

Which day, the treasurer to the said funds 
produced a letter from Mr. Robert Burns, of 
date the sixth current, which was read, and 
appointed to be engrossed in their sederunt- 
book, and of which letter the tenor follows : 
" To the Honourable Bailies of Canongate, 
Edinburgh. Gentlemen, I am sorry to be 
told, that the remains of Robert Fergusson, 
the so justly celebrated poet, a man whoso 
talents, for ages to come, will do honour to 
our Caledonian name, lie in your church- 
yard, among the ignoble dead, unnoticed and 
unknown. 

" Some memorial to direct the steps of the 
lovers of Scottish Song, when they wish to 
shed a tear over the 'nairow house' of the 



* Copied from the Bee, vol. ii p. 319 and com- 
pared with the Author'^ MS. » 



92 



LETTERS. 



bard who is no more, is surely a tribute due 
to Fergusson's memory ; a tribute 1 wish to 
have the honour of paying, 

'' I petition you, then, gentlemen, to per- 
mit me to lay a simple stone over his revered 
ashes, to remain an unalienable property to 
his deathless fame. I have the honour to be. 
Gentlemen, your very humble servant (sic 
subscribitur), 

"ROBERT BURNS." 

Thereafter the said managers, in consider- 
ation of the laudable and disinterested mo- 
tion of Mr. Burns, and the propriety of his 
request, did and hereby do, unanimously, 
grant power and liberty to the said Robert 
Sums to erect a headstone at the grave of 
said Robert Fergusson, and to keep up and 
preserve the same to his memory in all time 
coming. Extracted forth of the records of 
the managers, by 

WILLIAM SPROT, Clerk. 



No. XX, 



To 

My Dear Sir, 

You may think, and too justly, that I am 
a selfish, ungrateful fellow, having received 
so many repeated instances of kindness from 
you, and yet never putting pen to paper, to 
say — thank you ; but if you knew what a 
devil of a life my conscience has led me on 
that account, your good heait would think 
yourself too much avenged. By the by, 
there is nothing in the whole frame of man 
which seems to me so unaccountable as that 
thing called conscience. Had the trouble- 
some, yelping cur, powers efficient toprevent 
a mischief, he might be of use ; but at the be- 
ginning of the business, his feeble efforts are 
to the workings of passion as the infant frosts 
of an autumnal morning to the unclouded fer- 
vour of the rising sun : and no sooner are the 
tumultuous doings of the wicked deed over, 
than, amidst the bitter native consequences 
of folly, in the very vortex of our horrors, 
up starts conscience, and harrows us with 
the feelings of the d . 

I have enclosed you, by way of expiation, 
some verse and prose, that if they merit a 
place in your truly entertaining miscellany, 
you are welcome to. The prose extract is 
literally as Mr. Sprot sent it me. 

The Inscription on the stone is as follows : 

HERE LIES 

ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET, 

B«tn, September 5th, 1751— Died, 16th 
October, 1774. 



No sculptur'd Marble here, nor pompous lay, 
'• No storied urn nor animated bust ;" 

This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
To pour her sorrows o'er her Poet's dust. 

On the other side of the stone is as follows . 

" By special grant of the Managers to Ro- 
bert Burns, who erected this stone, this bu- 
rial place is to remain for ever sacred to the 
memory of Robert Fergusson." 



No. XXI. 



Extract of a Letter from 



8th March, 1787. 

I AM truly happy to know that you have 
found a friend in * * * * *j his pa- 
tronage of you does him great honour. Ho 
is truly a good man ; by far the best I ever 
knew, or, perhaps, ever shall know, in this 
world. But 1 must not speak all I think of 
him, lest I should be thought partial. 

So you have obtained liberty from the ma- 
gistrates to erect a stone over Fergusson's 
grave ; I do not doubt it ; such things have 
been, as Shakspeare says, " in the olden 
time;" 

" The poet's fate is here in emblem shown, 
He ask'd for bread, and he receiv'd a stone." 

It is, I believe, upon poor Butler's tomb 
that this is written. But how many bro- 
ther's of Parnassus, as well as poor Butler 
and poor Fergusson, have asked for bread, 
and been served the same sauce ? 

The magistrates gave you liberty, did they ? 
O generous magistrates [**-*** 
celebrated over the three kingdoms for his 
public spirit, gives a poor poet liberty to raise 
a tomb to a poor poet's memory ! most gene- 
rous I * * * * once upon a time gave 
that same poet the mighty sum of eighteen 
pence for a copy of his works. But then it 
must be considered that the poet was at this 
time absolutely starving, and besought his 
aid with all the earnestness of hunger; and 
over and above, he received a * * * * 
worth, at least one third of the value, in ex- 
change, but which, I believe, the poet after- 
wards very ungratefully expunged. 

Next week I hope to have the pleasure of 
seeing you in Edinburgh ; and as my stay 
will be for eight or ten days, I wish you or 
* * * * would take a snug well-aired 
bed room for me, where T may have the plea- 
sure of seeing you over a morning cup of 
tea. But, by all accounts, it will be a mat- 
ter of some difficulty to see you at all, un- 
less your company rs bespoke a week before 



LETTERS!^. 



93 



hand. There is a great rumour here con- 
cerning your great intimacy with the Dutch- 
ess of , and other ladies of distinction. 

1 am really told that " cards to invite fly by 
thousands each night ;" and, if you had one, 
I suppose there would also be " bribes to your 
old secretary." It seems you are resolved to 
make hay while the sun shines, and avoid, if 
possible, the fate of poor Fergusson, * * 
* * Queer e nda pecunia primum est, virtus 
post nummos, is a good maxim to thrive by ; 
you seemed to despise it wiiile in this coun- 
try J but probably some philosopher in Edin- 
burgh has taugh: you better sense. 

Pray, are you yet engraving as well as 
printing ? — Are you yet seized 

" With itch of picture in the front, 
With bays and wicked rhyme upon't.^" 

But I must give up this trifling, and attend 
to matters that more concern myself; so, 
as the Aberdeen wit says, adieu dryly, we 
sal drink phan we meet* 



No. XXI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, March 22, 1787. 

Madam, 

I READ your letter with watery eyes. A 
little, very little while ago, / had scarce a 
friend but the stubborn pride of my oicn bo- 
som; now I am distinguished, patronised, 
befriended by you. Your friendly advices, I 
will not give them the cold name of criti- 
cisms, I receive with reverence. I have 
made some small alterations in what I before 
had printed. I have the advice of some very 
judicious friends among the literati here; but 
with them I sometimes find it necessary to 
claim the privilege of thinking for myself. 
The noble Earl of Glencairn, to whom I owe 
more than to any man, does me the honour 
of giving me his strictures ; his hints, with 



* The above extract is from a letter of one of 
the ablest of our Poet's correspondents, which 
contains some interestinganecdotes of Fergusson, 
that we should liave been happy to have inserted, 
if they could have been authenticated The 
writer is mistaken in supposing the magistrates 
of Edinburgh had any share in the transaction 
respecting the monument erected for Fergusson 
by our bard ; this, it is evident, passed between 
Burns and the Kirk-Session of the Canongate. 
Neither at Edinburgh, nor any where else, do 
magistrates usually trouble themselves to inquire 
how the house of a poor poet is furnished, or how 
his grave is adorned. E. 



respect to impropriety or indelicacy, I follow 
implicitly. 

You kindly interest yourself in my future 
views and prospects: there I can give you 
no light : — it is all 

" Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun 
Was roll'd together, or had try'd his beams 
Athwart the gloom profound." 

The appellation of a Scottish bard is by far 
my highest pride ; to continue to deserve it, 
is my most exalted ambition. Scottish 
scenes and Scottish story are the themes I 
could wish to sing. I have no dearer aim 
than to have it in my power, unplagued with 
the routine of business, for which, heaven 
knows ! I am unfit enough, to make leisurely 
pilgrimages through Caledonia ; to sit on the 
fields of her battles; to wander on the ro- 
mantic banks of her rivers; and to muse by 
the stately towers or venerable ruins, once 
the honoured abodes of her heroes. 

But these are all Utopian thoughts : I have 
dallied long enough with life ; 'tis time to be 
in earnest. I have a fond, an aged mother 
to care for ; and some other bosom ties per- 
haps equally tender. 

Where the individual only suffers by the 
consequences of his own thoughtlessness, in- 
dolence, or folly, he may be excusable ; nay, 
shining abilities, and some of the nobler vir- 
tues, may half sanctify a heedless character . 
but where God and nature have intrusted the 
welfare of others to his care, where the trust 
is sacred, and the ties are dear, that man 
must be far gone in selfishness, or strangely 
lost to reflection, whom these connexions 
will not rouse to exertion. 

I guess that I shall clear between two and 
three hundred pounds by my authorship : 
with that sum I intend, so far as I may be 
said to have any intention, to return to ray 
old acquaintance, the plough; and if I can 
meet witli a lease by which I can live, to 
commence farmer. I do not intend to give 
up poetry : being bred to labour secures me 
independence ; and the muses are my chief, 
sometimes have been my only employment. 
If my practice second my resolution, I shall 
have principally at heart the serious business 
of life; but while following my plough, or 
building up my shocks, I shall cast a leisure 
glance to that dear, tiiat only feature of my 
character, which gave me the notice of my 
country, and the patronage of a Wallace. 

Thus, honoured Madam, I have given you 
the bard, his situation, and his views, native 
as they are in his own bosom. 



ai 



letters!. 



^u. xxm. 

TO THE SAMK. 

Edinburgh^ \olh ^3pril, 1T67. 

Madam, 

There is an affectation of gratitude 
wliich I dislike. Tl)e periods ot* Johnson 
and the pauses of Sterno, niaj' hide a selfish 
heart. For nxy part, Madam, 1 trust I have 
too much pride for servility, and too little 
prudence for selfishness. I have this mo- 
ment broken open your letter, but 

" Rude am I in spcecli, 
Anrl therefore little can I grace my cause 
In speaking for myself" — 

i 
tio I shall not trouble you with any fine j 
speeches and hunted figures. I shall just lay i 
my hand on my heart, and say, I hope I shall i 
ever have the truest, the virarmest sense of j 
your goodness. j 

I come abroad in print for certain on Wed- 
nesday. Your orders I shall punctually at- 
tend to ; only, by the way, I must tell you 
that I was paid before for Dr. Moore's and 
Miss W.'s copies, through the medium of 
Commissioner Cochrane in this place ; but 
that we can settle when I have the honour 
of waiting on you. 

Dr. Smith* was just gone to London the 
morning before I received your letter to him. 



of too tender a construction to bear carriage 
a hundred and fifty miles. To the rich, the 
great, the fashionable, the polite, I have no 
equivalent to offer ; and I am afraid my me- 
teor appearance will by no means entitle me 
to a settled correspondence with any of you, 
who are the permanent lights of genius and 
literature. 

My most respectful compliments to Miss 
W. If once this tangent flight of mine were 
over, and I were returned to my wonted lei- 
surely motion in my old circle; I may proba- 
bly endeavour to return her poetic compli- 
ment in kind. 



No. XXIV. 
TO DR. MOORE. 

Edinburgh, 23.i ^pril, 1787. 

I RECEIVED the books, and sent the one 
you mentioned to Mrs. Dunlop. I am ill 
skilled in beating the coverts of imagination 
for metaphors of gratitude. I thank you, 
Sir, for the honour you have done me , and 
to my latest hour will warmly remember it. 
To be highly pleased with your book, is what 
1 have in common with the world ; but to 
regard these volumes as a niark of the au- 
thor's friendly esteem, is a still more supreme 
gratification. 

I leave Edinburgh in the course of ten 
days or a fortnight ; and, after a few pil- 
wriinagcs ovtfr some of the classic ground of 
Caledonia, Cuwden Knmces, Banks of Yar- 
roic, Tweed, S,^c. I sliall return to my rural 
shades, in all likelihood never more to quit 
them. I have formed many intimacies and 
friendships here, but I am afraid Ihoy are all 

* Adam Sfi>ith. 



No. XXV 

EXTRACT OF A LETTER TO MRS. 
DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, 'Mtli Jipril, 1787. 

Your criticisms. Madam, I under- 
stand very well, and could have wished to 
have pleased you better. You are right in 
your guess that I am not very amenable to 
counsel. Poets, much my superiors, have 
so flattered those who possessed the adventi- 
tious qualities of wcJilth and power, that I 
am determined to flatter no created being 
either in prose or verse. 

I set as little by princes, lords, clergy, cri- 
tics, Ac as all these respective gentry do by 
my bardsliip. I know what I may expect 
from the world by and by — illiberal abuse, 
and perhaps contemptuous neglect. 

lam happy, Madam, that some of my own 
favourite pieces are distinguished by your 
particular approbation. For my Dream, 
which has unfortunately incurred your loyal 
displeasure, I hope in four weeks, or less, to 
have the honour of appearing at Dunlop, in 
its defence, in person. 



No. XXVL 
TO THE REV. DR. HUGH BLAIR. 

Laicn-Marhet, Edinburgh, ?>d May, 1787. 

Reverend and much re.spkcted Sir, 

I leave Edinburgh to-morrow morning, 
but could not go without troubling you with 
half a line sincerely to thank you for the 
kindness, patronage, and friendship you have 
shown me. I often felt the embarrassment 
of my singular situation; drawn forth from 
the veriest shades of life to the glare of re- 
mark : and honoured by the notice of those 



LETTERS. 



95 



illustrious names of my country, whose works, 
while they are applauded to the end of time, 
will ever instruct and mend the heart. How- 
ever the mctcor-like novelty of my appear- 
ance in the world might aMract notice, and 
lionour me with the acquaintance of the per- 
manent lights of genius and literature, those 
who are truly benefactors of the immortal 
nature of man ; I knew very well that my 
utmost merit was far unequal to the task of 
preserving that character when once tlie 
novelty was over. I have made up my mind, 
that abuse, or almost even neglect, will not 
surprise me in my quarters. 

1 have sent you a proof impression of Beu- 
go's work for me, done on India paper, as a 
trifling but sincere testimony with what heart- 
worm gratitude I am, &c. 



No. XXVII. 
FROM DR. BLAIR. 

Ar gyle- Square, Edinburgh, 4th May. 

Dear Sir, 

I WAS favoured this forenoon with your 
very obliging letter, together with an im- 
pression of your portrait, for which I return 
you my best thanks. The success you have 
met with 1 do not think was beyond your 
merits ; and if I have had any small hand in 
contributing to it, it gives me great pleasure. 
I know no way in which literary persons, who 
are advanced in years, can do more service 
to the world, than in forwarding the efforts 
of rising genius, or bringing forth unknown 
merit from obscurity. I was the first person 
who brought out to the notice of the world, 
the poems of Ossian : first, by the Fragvieiits 
of Ancient Poetry which I published, and af- 
terwards by my setting on foot the under- 
taking for collecting and publishing the 
Works of Ossian ; and I have always consi- 
dered this as a meritorious action of my life. 

Your situation, as you say, was indeed 
verv sinf'uiar; and, in being brought out all 
at once from the shades of deepest privacy, 
to so great a share of public notice and ob- 
servation, you had to stand a severe trial. I 
am happy that you stood it so well ; and, as 
far as I have known or heard, thougli in tlie 
midst of many temptations, without reproach 
to your character and bcliaviour. 

You are now, I presume, to retire to a 
more private walk of life ; and, I trust, will 
conduct yourself there, with industry, pru- 
dence, and honour. You have laid the foun- 
dation for just public esteem. In the midst 
of those employments, which your situation 
will render proj)er. you will not. I hope, neg- 



lect to promote that esteem, by cultivating 
your genius, and attending to such produc- 
tions of it as may raise your character still 
higher. At the same time, be not in too great 
haste to come forward. Take time and lei- 
sure to improve and mature your talents ; 
for on any second production you give the 
world, your fate, as a poet, will very much 
depend. There is, no doubt, a gloss of no- 
velty which time wears off. As you very 
properly hint yourself, you are not to be sur- 
prised, if, in your rural retreat, you do not 
find yourself surrounded with that glare of 
notice and applause which here shone upon 
you. No uian can be a good poet, without 
being somewhat of a philosopher He must 
lay his account, that any one, who exposes 
himself to public observation, will occasion- 
ally meet with the attacks of illiberal censure, 
which it is always best to overlook and des- 
pise. He will be inclined sometimes to court 
retreat, and to disappear from public view. 
He will not affect to shine always, that he 
may at proper seasons come forth with more 
advantage and energy. He will not think 
himself neglected, if he be not always praised. 
I have taken the liberty, you see, of an old 
man, to give advice and make reflections, 
which your own good sense will, I dare say, 
render unnecessary. 

As you mention your being just about to 
leave town, you are going, I should suppose, 
to Dumfries-shire, to lock at some of Mr. 
Miller's farms. I heartily wish the offers to 
be made you there may answer, as I am per- 
suaded you will not easily find a more gene- 
rous and better-hearted proprietor to live 
under, than Mr. Miller. Wiien you return, 
if you come this way, I will be happy to see 
you, and to know concerning your' future 
plans of life. Yon will find me by the 22d 
of this month, not in my house in Argyle- 
square, but at a country-house at Restalrig, 
about a mile east from Edinburgh, near the 
Musselburgh road. Wishing you all success 
and prosperity, I am, with real regard and 
esteem. 

Dear Sir, 

Your's sincerely, 
HUGH BLAIR. 



No. XXVIII. 
FROM DR. MOORE. 

Clifford-street, May 23, 1787. 

Dji.4.R SiK, 

I HAP the pleasure of your letter by Mr. 
Creech, and soon after he sent nic the new 
edition of your poems. You sucni to think it 
incumbent on you to send to each subscriber 
a number of copies proportionate to his sub- 



96 



LETTERS. 



scription-money ; but you may depend upon 
it, few subscribers expect more than one co- 
py, whatever they subscribed. I naust in- 
form you, however, that I took twelve co- 
pies for those subscribers for whose money 
you were so accurate as to send me a re- 
ceipt; and Lord Eglinton told me he had 
sent for six copies for himself, as he wished 
to give five of them as presents. 

Some of the poems you have added in this 
last edition are very beautiful, particularly 
the Winter JVightf the Mdr ess to Edinburgh, 
Green grow the Rashes, and the two songs 
immediately following ; the latter of which 
is exquisite By the way, I imagine you 
have a peculiar talent for such compositions, 
which you ought to indulge.* No kind of 
poetry demands more delicacy or higher po- 
lishing. Horace is more admired on account 
of his Odes, than all his other writings. But 
nothing now added is equal to your Vision, 
and Cotter's Saturday Mght. In these are 
tmited fine imagery, natural and pathetic de- 
scription, with sublimity of language and 
thought. It is evident that you already pos- 
sess a great variety of expression and com- 
mand of the English language, you ought, 
therefore to deal more sparmgly for the fu- 
ture in the provincial dialect: why should 
you, by using that, limit the number of your 
admirers to those who understand tbo Scot- 
tish, when you can extend it to all persons 
of taste who understand the English lan- 
guage .'' In my opinion you should plan 
some larger work than any you have as yet 
attempted. I mean, reflect upon some pro- 
per subject, and arrange the plan in your 
mind, without beginning to execute any part 
of it till you have studied most of the best 
English poets, and read a little more of his- 
tory. The Greek and Roman stories you 
can read in some abridgment, and soon be- 
come master of the most brilliant facts, which 
must highly delight a poetical mind. You 
should also, and very soon may, become mas- 
ter of the heathen mythology, to which there 
are everlasting allusions in all the poets, and 
which in itself is charmingly fanciful. What 
will require to be studied with more atten- 
tion, is modern history ; that is, the history 
of France and Great Britain, from the be- 

f inning of Henry the Seventh's reign. I 
now very well you have a mind capable of 
attaining knowledge by a shorter process 
than is commonly used, and I am certain you 
are capable of making a better use of it, when 
attained, than is generally done. 

I beg you will not give yourself the trou- 
ble of writing to me when it is inconvenient, 
and make no apology when you do write for 

* The poems subsequenily compared will bear 
testimony to the accuracy of Dr. Moore's judg- 
ment. E, 



having postponed it; be assured of this, how- 
ever, that I shall always be happy to hear 

from you. 1 think my friend, Mr. , told 

me that you had some poems in manuscript 
by you, of a satirical and humourous nature 
(in which, by the way, I think you very 
strong,) which your prudent friends prevail- 
ed on you to omit ; particularly one called 
Somebody's Confession; if you will intrust 
me with a sight of any of these, I will pawn 
my word to give no copies, and will be obliged 
to you for a perusal of them. 

I understand you intend to take a farm, 
and make the useful and respectable busi- 
ness of husbandry your chief occupation ; 
this, I hope, will not prevent your making 
occasional addresses to the nine ladies who 
have shown you such favour, one of whom 
visited you in the auld clay biggin. Virgil, 
before you, proved to the world, that there 
is nothing in the business of husbandry ini- 
mical to poetry ; and I sincerely hope that 
you may afford an example of a good poet 
being a successful farmer. I fear it will not 
be in my power to visit Scotland this sea- 
son ; when I do, I will endeavour to find you 
out, for I heartily wish to see and converse 
with you. If ever your occasions call you 
to this place, I make no doubt of your paying 
me a visit, and you may depend on a very 
cordial welcome from this family. 

I am, dear Sir, 

Your friend and obedient servant, 

J. MOORE. 



No. XXIX. 
TO MR. WALKER, 

BLAIR OF ATHOLE. 

Inverness, 5tk September, 1787. 

My Dear Sir, 

I HAVE just time to write the foregoing,* 
and to tell you that it was (at least most 
part of it,) the effusion of a half-hour I spent 
at Bruar. I do not mean it was extempore, 
for I have endeavoured to brush it up as well 

as Mr. N 's chat, and the jogging of the 

chaise, would allow. It eases my heart a 
good deal, as rhyme is the coin with which 
a poet pays his debts of honour or gratitude. 
What I owe to the noble family of Athole, 
of the first kind, I shall ever proudly boast ; 
what I owe of the last, so help me God in 
my hour of need ! I shall never forget. 



* The humble Petition of Bruar-Water to the 
Duke of Athole. See Poems. 



LETTERS. 



97 



The " little angel band !" I declare I pray- 
ed for them very sincerely to-day at the Fall 
ofFyers. I shall never forget the fine fa- 
mil3'-piece I saw at Blair; the amiable, the 
truly noble Dutchess, with her smiling little 
seraph in her lap, at the head of the table ; 
the lovely "olive plants," as the Hebrew 
bard finely says, round the happy mother ; 

the beautiful Mrs. G ; the lovely, sweet 

Miss C, &c. I wish I had the powers of 
Guido to do them justice. My Lord Duke's 
kind hospitality — markedly kind indeed! — 

Mr, G. of F 's charms of conversation — 

Sir W. M 's friendship. In short, the re- 
collection of all that polite, agreeable com- 
pany, raises an honest glow in my bosom. 



No. XXX. 
TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 17th Sept. 1787. 

My dear Brother, 

I ARRIVED here safe yesterday evening 
after a tour of twenty -two days, and travel- 
ling near six hundred miles, windings includ- 
ed. My farthest stretch was about ten miles 
beyond Inverness. I went through the heart 
of the Highlands, by Crieff, Taymouth, the 
famous seat of the Lord Breadalbane, down 
the Tay, among cascades and Druidical cir- 
cles of stones, to Ounkeld, a seat of the Duke 
of Athole ; thence cross Tay, and up one of 
his tributary streams to Blair of Athole, ano- 
ther of the Duke's seats, where I had the ho- 
nour of spending nearly two days with his 
Grace andfamily; thence many milesthrough 
a wild country, among cliffs gray with eter- 
nal snows, and gloomy savage glens, till I 
crossed Spey, and went down the stream 
through Strathspey, so famous in Scottish 
music, Badenoch, &c till I reached Grant 
Castle, where I spent half a day with Sir 
James Grant and family ; and then crossed 
the country for Fort George, but called by 
the way at Cawdor, the ancient seat of Mac- 
beth ; there I saw the identical bed in which, 
tradition says. King Duncan was murdered ; 
lastly, from Fort George to Inverness. 

I returned by the coast, through Nairn, 
Forres, and so on, to Aberdeen ; thence to 
Stonehive, where James Burness. from Mon- 
trose, met me, by appointment. I spent two 
days among our relations, and found our 
aunts, Jean and Isabel, still alive, and hale 
old women. John Caird, though born the 
same year with our father, walks as vigour- 
ously as I can ; they have had several letters 
from his son in New- York. William Brand 
is likewise a stout old fellow ; but further 
particulars I delay till 1 see you, which will 
be in two or three weeks. The rest of my 



stages are not worth rehearsing ; warm as I 
was from Ossian's country, where I had seen 
his very grave, what cared I for fishing towns 
or fertile carses ? I slept at the famous Bro- 
die of Brodie's one night, and dined at Gor- 
don Castle next day with the Duke, Dutch- 
ess, and family. I am thinking to cause my 
old mare to meet me, by means of John Ro- 
nald at Glasgow ; but you shall hear farther 
from me before 1 leave Edinburgh. My du- 
ty, and many compliments, from the north, 
to my mother, and my brotherly cempliments 
to the rest. I have been trying for a birth 
for William, but am not likelv to be success- 
ful. — Farewell. 



No. XXXI. 
FROM MR. R- 



Ochtertyre, 22d October, 1787. 

Sir, 

'TwAS only yesterday I got Colonel Ed- 
mondstoune's answer, that neither the words 
of Do W7i the Burn Davie, nor Daintie Davie , 
(I forgot which you mentioned,) were writ- 
ten by Colonel G. Crawford. Next time I 
meet him, I will inquire about his cousin's 
poetical talents. 

Enclosed are the inscriptions you request- 
ed, and a letter to Mr. Young, whose com- 
pany and musical talents will, I am persua- 
ded, be a feast to you.'' Nobody can give 



* These Inscriptions so much admired by 
Burns, are as follows : 

WRITTEN IN 1768. 

FOR THE SALICTUM* AT OCHTERTTRE. 

Salubritatis voluptatisque causa, 

Hoc Salictum, 

Paludem olim infidam, 

Mihi meisque desicco et exorno. 

Hie, procul negotiis sirepituque, 

Innocuis deliciis 

Silvulas inter nascentes reptandi, 

Apiumque labores suspiciendi, 

Fruor. 

Hie, si faxit Deus opt. max. 

Prope hunc fonteni pellucidum, 

Cum quodam juventulis amico superstite, 

Saepe conquiescam, senex, 

Contentus modicis, meoque lajtusi 

Sin aliter — 

jEvique paiilulum supersit, 

Vos silvulse, et amici, 

Cccteraqiie amcena, 

Valete, diuque lEetaniini ! 



^Salictum — Grove of Willows, Willow-ground. 



98 



LETTERS. 



vou better hints, as to 3'our present plan, than 
he. Receive also Omeron Cameron, which 
seemed to make such a deep impression on 
vour imagination, that I am not without hopes 
"it will beget soiiiething to delight the public 
in due time : and, no doubt, the circumstances 
of this little tale might be varied or extended, 
so as to make part of a pastoral comedy. Age 
or wounds might have kept Omeron at home, 
whilst his countrymen were inthefield. His 
station may be somewhat varied, without 
losing his simplicity and kindness. * * * 
A group of characters, male and female, 
connected with the plot, might be formed 
from his family or some neighbouring one of 
rank. It is not indispensable that the guest 
should be a man of high station ; nor is the 
political quarrel in which he is engaged of 
much importance, unless to call forth the 
exercise of his generosity and faithfulness, 
grafted on patriarchal hospitality. To intro- 
duce state affairs, would raise the style above 
comedy ; though a small spice of them would 
season the converse of swains. Upon this 
head I cannot say more than to recommend 
the study of the character of Eumceus in the 
Odyssey, which, in Mr. Pope's translation, 
is an exquisite and invaluable drawing from 

ENGLISHED. 

To improve both air and soil, 

I drain and decorate this plantation of willows, 

Which was lately an unprofitable niorass. 

Here far from noise and strife, 

I love to wander, 

Now fondly marking the progress of my trees, 

Now studying the bee its arts and manners. 

Here, if it pleases Almighty God, 

May I often rest in the evening of life. 

Near that transparent fountain. 

With some surviving friend of my youth ; 

Contented with a competency, 

And happy with ray lot. 
If vain these humble wishes, 
And life draws near a close, 

Ye trees and friends. 

And whatever else is dear, 

Farewell I and long may ye flourish 



ABOVE THE POOR OF THR HOUSE. 

WRITTEN IN 1775. 

Mihi meisqiie utinam conting 
Prope Taichi inarginem, 
Avito ill Agello, 
Bene vivere faustequo moril 

ENGI.ISHED. 

On the banks of the Teith, 

In the small but sweet inheritance 

Of my fathers, 

May I and mine live in peace. 

And die in joyful hope I 

These inscriptions, and the translations, are 
in tlie liatid writing of Mr. Ramsnv. 



nature, that would suit some of our country 
Elders of the present day. 

There must be love in the plot, and a happy 
discovery ; and peace and pardon may be the 
reward of hospitality, and honest attachment 
to misguided principles. When you have 
once thought of a plot, and brought the siory 
into form, Dr. Blacklock, or Mr. H.Macken- 
zie, may be useful in dividing it into acts and 
scenes ; for in these matters one must pay 
some attention to certain rules of the drama. 
These you could afterwards fill up at your 
leisure. But, whilst I presume to give a few 
well-meant hints, let me advise you to study 
the spirit of my namesake's dialogue,* which 
is natural without being low ; and, under the 
trammels of verse, is such as country people, 
in these situations, speak every day. You 
have only to bring doi07i your strain a very 
little. A great plan, such as this, would 
concentre all your ideas, which facilitates 
the execution, and makes it a part of one's 
pleasure. 

I approve of your plan of retiring from din 
and dissipation to a farm of very moderate 
size, sufficient to find exercise for mind and 
body, but not so great as to absorb better 
things. And if some intellectual pursuit be 
well chosen and steadily pursued, it will be 
more lucrative than most farms, in this age 
of rapid improvement. 

Upon this subject, as your well-wisher and 
admirer, permit me to go a step further. Let 
those bright talents which the Almighty has 
bestowed on you, be henceforth employed to 
the noble purpose of supporting the cause of 
truth and virtue. An imagination so varied 
and forcible as yours, may do this in many dif- 
ferent modes : nor is it necessary to be al- 
ways serious, which you have to good pur- 
pose ; good morals may be recommended in 
a comedy, or even in a song. Great allow- 
ances are due to the heat and inexperience of 
youth ; — and few poets can boast, like Thom- 
son, of never having written a line, which, 
dying, they would wish to blot. In particu- 
lar I wish you to keep clear of the thorny 
walks of satire, which makes a man a hun- 
dred enemies for one friend, and is doubly 
dangerous when one is supposed to extend 
the slips and weaknesses of individuals to 
their sect or party. About modes of faith, 
serious and excellent men have always dif- 
fered; and there are certain curious ques- 
tions which may afford scope to men of me- 
taphysical heads, hut seldom mend the heart 
or temper. Whilst these points are beyond 
human ken, it is sufficient that all our sects 
concur in their views of morals. You will 
forgive me for these hints. 

Well ! what think you of good lady 
* Allan Ramsay, in the Gentle Shepherd. E. 



I.ETTERS. 



9& 



Clackmannan ?* It is a pity she is so denf, 
and speaks so indistinctly. Her house is a 
s^pecimen of the mansions of our g-entry of 
the last age, when hospitality and elevation 
of mind were conspicuous amidst plain fare- 
and plain furniture. I shall be glud to hear 
from you at times, if it were no more than to 
show that you take the effusions of an ob- 
scure man like me in good part. I beg my 
best respects to Dr. and Mrs. Blacklock.t 

And am, Sir, 

Your most obedient, humble servant, 

J. RAMSAY. 

* Mrs. Bruce of Clackmannan. E. 

t TALE OF OMERON CAMERON. 

In one of the wars betwixt the crown of Scot- 
land and the Lords of the Isles, Alexander Stew- 
art, Earl of Mar, (a distingnished character in 
the fifloenth century,) and Donald Stewart, Earl 
of Caithness, had the command of the royal ar- 
my. They marched into Lochaber, with a view 
of attacking a body of tlie M'Doiialds, command- 
ed l)y Donald Balloch, and posted upon an arm 
of the sea wliich intersects tliat country. Hav- 
ing timely intelligence of their approach, the in- 
surgents got off precipitately to the opposite shore 
in then" curt-aghs, or boats covered with skins. 
The king's troops encamped in full security; but 
the M'Donalds, returning about midnight, sur- 
prised ti)ein, killed the Earl of Caithness, and 
destroyed or dispersed the whole army. 

The Earl of .Mar escaped in the dark, without 
any attendants, and made for the more liilly part 
of the country, in the course of his flight he 
came to the house of a poor man, whose name 
was Omeron Cameron. The landlord welcomed 
his guest will) the utmost kindness ; but, as there 
was no meat in the house, he told his wife lie 
would directly kill JMuol Adhar,* to feed the 
stranger. " Kill our only cow !" said she, " our 
own and our little children's principal support!" 
More attentive, however, to the present call for 
hospitality than to the remonstrances of his wife, 
or the future exigencies of his family, he killed 
the cow. The best and tetideresl parts were 
immediately roasted before the fire, and plenty 
of innirich, or Higidand soup, prepared to con- 
clude their meal. Tiie whole family, and their 
guest, ate heartily, and the evening was spent, as 
usual, in telling tales and singing songs beside a 
clioorful fire. Bedtime came ; Omeron brusiied 
llie iicarth, spread the cow-hide upon it, and de- 
sired the stranger to lie (iown. The earl wrap- 
ped bis plaid about hiui, and slept souiuily on 
the hide, whilst the family betook themselves to 
rest in a corner of tlie same room. 

Next morning they had a plentifid breakfast, 
and at his departure Jiis guest asked Cameron, if 
he knew whom he had entertainer! ? " You may, 
probably," answered he, " be one of the king's 
officers ; but whoever you are, you came here in 



No. XXXIL 
FROM MR. J. RAMSAY, 



* Maol Adhar, 

36 



/. f. the brov.'n, hnmmil cow. 



TO THE 

REVEREND W. YOUNG, AT 
ERSKINE. 

Ochtertyre, 22d October, 1787. 

Dear Sir, 

Allow me to introduce Mr. Burns, whose 
poems, I dare say, liave given you much 
pleasure. Upon a personal acquaintance, I 
doubt not, you will relish the man as much 
as his works, in which there is a rich vein of 
intellectual ore. He has heard some' of our 
Highland Luinags or songs played, which 
delighted him so much that he has made 
words to one or two of them, which will ren- 
der these more popular. As he has thouirht 
of being in your quarter, I am persuaded 
you will not think it labour lost to indulge 
the poet of nature with a sample of those 
sweet, artless melodies, which only want to 
be married (in Milton's phrase) to congenial 
words. I wish we could conjure up the ghost 
of Joseph M'D. to infuse into our bard a por- 
tion of his enthusiasm for those neglected 
airs, which do not suit the fastidious musi- 
cians of the present hour. But if it be true 
that Corelli(whom I looked on as the Homer 
of music) is out of date, it is no proof of their 

distress, and here it was my duty to protect j'ou. 
To what njy cottage aflorded you was most wel- 
come." " Your guest, then," replied tlie other, 
" is the Earl of Mar; and if hereafter you fall 
into any misfortune, fail not to come to the cas- 
tle of Kildrummie." " My blessing be with you^ 
noble stranger," said Omeron ; "iflameveriu 
distress you sliall soon see me." 

The Royal array was soon after re-assemMcf], 
and the insurgeuls, finding themselves unable to 
make head against it, dispersed. Tlie M'Donald's, 
however, got notice that Omeron had been the 
Earl's host, anM forced him to fly the country. 
He came with his wife and children to the gate 
of Kildrummie castle, and retpiired admittance 
with a confidence which hardly corresponded 
with his habit and appearance. The porter told 
him rudely, his Lordship was at dinner, and nmst 
not be disturbed. He became noisy and impor- 
tunate : at last his name was announced. Upon 
hearing that it was Omeron Cameron, the Ear! 
started from his seat, and is said to have ex- 
claimed in a kind of poetical stanza, " I was a 
night in his house, and fared most plentifully ; 
but naked of clothes was my bed. Omeron from 
Breugach is an excellent fellow." He was intro- 
duceil into the great hall, and received with the 
welcome he deserved. Upon hearing how he had 
been treated, the Earl gave iiim a four merk land 
near the castle ; audit is said there are still a 
number of Catiierons descended of this Highland 
Euma'.ns. 



lOU 



i:etters. 



taste; — this, however, is going out of my 
province. You can show Mr. Burns the 
manner of singing the same Luinags ; and, 
if he can humour it in words, I do not des- 
pair of seeing one of them sung upon the 
stage, in the original style, round a napkin. 

I am very sorry v/e are likely to meet so 
seldom in this neighbourhood. It is one of 
the greatest drawbacks that attends obscu- 
rity, that one has so few opportunities of cul- 
tivating acquaintances at a distance. I liope, 
however, some time or other to have the 
pleasure of beating up 3'our quarters at Ers- 
kine, and of hauling you away to Paisley, 
<fec. ; meanwhile I beg to be remembered to 
Messrs. Boog andMylne. 

If Mr. B. goes by — r-, give him a billet 
on our friend Mr. Stuart, who, I presume, 
does not dread the frowns of bis diocesan. 

1 am, Dear Sir, 

Your most obedient, humble servant, 

J. RAMSAY. 



those sweet effusions. But 1 have hardly 
room to offer my best compliments to Mrs. 
Blacklock, and am. 

Dear Doctor, 

Your most obedient humble servant, 

J. RAMSAY. 



No. XXXIII. 
FROM MR. RAMSAY 

■VO DR. BLACKtOCK. 

Ochtertyre, Octoher 27, 1787. 

Dear Sir, 

I RECEIVED yours by Mr. Burns, and 
give you many thanks for giving me an op- 
portunity of conversing with a man of his 
calibre. He will, I doubt not, let you know 
what passed between us on the subject of 
my hints, to which I have made additions .in 
a letter I sent him t'other day to your care. 



You may tell Mr. Burns, when you see 
him, that Colonel Edmondstoune told me 
t'other day, that his cousin. Colonel George 
Crawford, was no poet, but a great singer of 
songs ; but that his eldest brother Ptobert 
(by a former marriage) had a great turn that 
way, having written the words of The Bush 
aboon Traquair and Tioeedside. That the 
Mary 10 whom it was addressed was Mary 
Stewart, of the Castlemiik family, afterwards 
wife of Mr. John Relches. The Colonel ne- 
ver saw Robert Crawford, though he was at 
his burial fifty-five years ago. He vvas a 
pretty young man, and had lived long in 
France. Lady Ankerville is his neice, and 
may know more of his poetical vein. An 
epitaph-monger like me, might moralize 
upon the vanity of life, arnd the vanitv of 



No. XXXIV. 
FROM MR. JOHN MURDOCH. 

London, 28tk October, 1787. 

My Dear Sir, 

As my friend, Mr. Brown, is going from 
this place to your neighbourhood, I embrace 
! the opportunity of telling you that I am yet 
I alive, tolerably well, and always in expecta- 
I tion of being better. By the much valued 
1 letters before me I see it was my duty to 
j have given you this intelligence about three 
I years and nine months ago: and have no- 
i thing to allege as an excuse, but that we 
I poor, busy, bustling bodies in London, are 
so much taken up with the various pursuits 
in whicli we are here engaged, that we sel- 
dom think of any person, creature, place, or 
thing that is absent. But this is not altoge- 
ther the case with me ; for I often think of 
you, and Hornie and Russcl, and an unfa- 
thomed depth, and Lowan brunstane, all in 
the same minute, although you and they are 
(as I suppose) at a considerable distance. I 
flatter myself, however, with the pleasing 
thought, that you and I shall meet some time 
or other either in Scotland or England. If 
ever you come hither, you will have the sa- 
tisfaction of seeing your poems relished by 
the Caledonians in London, full as much as 
they can be by those at Edinburgh. We fre- 
quently repeat some ofyour verses in our Cale- 
donian society ; and you may believe, that I am 
not a little vain that I have had some share in 
cultivating such a genius. I was not abso- 
lutely certain that you were the author, till a 
few days ago, when I made a visit to Mrs. 
Hill, Dr. M'Comb's eldest daughter, who 
lives in town, and who told me that she was 
informed of it by a letter from her sister in 
Edinburgh, with whom you had been in 
company when in that capital. 

Pray let me know if you have any inten- 
tion of visiting this huge, overgrown inetro- 
polis ^ It would afford matter for a large 
poem. Here you would have an opportu- 
nity of indulging your vein in the study of 
mankind, perhaps to a greater degree than 
in any city upon the face of the globe ; for 
the inhabitants of London, as you know, are 
a collection of all nations, kindreds, and 
tongues, who make it, as it were, the cen- 
tre oftheir commerce 



LETTERS?. 



101 



No. XXX Vf. 



Present my respectful compliments to Mrs. 
Burns, to my dear friend Gilbert, and all the 
rest of her amiable children. May the Fa- 
ther of the universe bless you all with those 
principles and dispositions that the best of 
parents took such uncommon pains to instil 
into your minds from your earliest infancy ! 
May you live as he did ! if you do, you can 
never be unhappy, I feel myself grown se- 
rious all at once, and affected in a manner I 
cannot describe. I shall only add, that it is 
one of the greatest pleasures I promise my- 
self before 1 die, that of seeing the family of 
a man whose memory I revere more than 
that of any person that ever I was acquaint- 
ed with. 

I am, my dear Friend, 
Yours sincerely, 

JOHN MURDOCH. 



FROM THE 



REVEREND JOHN SKINNER. 



Linsheart, lith JVovembcr, 1787. 



Sm, 



No. XXXV. 

FROM MR. — 



Gordon Castle, 31st Oct. 1737. 



Sir, 



If you were not sensible of your fault as 
well as of your loss in leaving this place so 
suddenly, I should condemn you to starve 
upon cauld had for a toicmont at least ! and 
as for Dick Latine* your travelling compa- 
nion, without banning him zcV a' the curses 
contained in your letter (which he'll no value 
a bawbee), I should give him nought but Stra^- 
hogis castocks to chew for sax ouks, or ay 
until he was as sensible of his error as you 
seem to be of your?. 



Your song I showed without producing the 
author; and it was judged by the Dutchess 
to be the production of Dr. Beattie. I sent 
a copy of it, by her Grace's desire, to a Mrs. 
M'Pherson, in Badenoch, who sings Morag 
and all other Gaelic songs in great perfec- 
tion. I have recorded it likewise, by Lady 



Your kind return without date, but of 
post mark October 25th, came to my hand 
only this day : and, to testify my punctuality 
to my poetic engagement, 1 sit down imme- 
diately to answer it in kind. Your acknow- 
ledgment of my poor but just encomiums on 
your surprising genius, and your opinion of 
my rhyming excursions, are both, I think^ 
by far too high. The difference between our 
two tracks of education and wajs of life is 
entirely in your favour, and gives you the 
preference every manner of way. I know a 
j classical education will not create a versify- 
I ing taste, but it mightily improves and assists 
it ; and though, where both these meet, there 
may sometimes be ground for approbation, 
yet where taste appears single .as it were, 
and neither cramped nor supported by ac- 
quisition, I will always sustain the justice of 
its prior claim of applause. A small portion 
of taste, tliis way, I have had almost from 
childhood, especially in the old Scottish dia- 
lect; and it is as old a thing as I remember, 
my fondness for Christ-kirk o' the Green, 
which I had by heart, ere I was twelve years 
of age, and which, some years ago, I attempt- 
ed to turn into Latin verse. While I was 
young I dabbled a good deal in these things ; 
but, on getting the black gown, I gave it 
pretty much over, till my daughters grew 
up, who, being all good singers, plagued me 
for words to some of their favourite tunes, 
and so extorted these effusions, which have 
made a public appearance beyond my ex- 
pectations, and contrary to my intentions, 
at the same time that I hope there is nothing 
to be found in them uncharacteristic, or un- 
becoming the cloth which I would always 
wish to see respected. 

As to the assistance you purpose from me 
in the undertaking you are engaged in,* I 



Charlotte'sdesire, in a book belonging to her am sorry I cannot give it so far as I could 



ladyship, where it is in company with a great 
many other poems and verses, some of the 
writers of which are no less eminent for their 
political than for their poetical abilities. — 
When the Dutchess was informed that you 
were the author, she wished you had written 
the verses in Scotch. 

Any letter directed to me here will come 
to hand safely, and, if sent under the Duke's 
cover, it will likewise come free ; that is, as 
long as the Duke is in this country. 

I am. Sir, yours sincerely. * 

* ATr. Nirol. 



wish, and you perhaps expect. My daugh- 
ters, who were my only intelligencers, are 
a.llforis-familiate, and the old woman their 
mother has lost that taste. There are two 
from my own pen, which I might give you, 
if worth the while. One to the old Scotch 
tune of Dumbarto?i's Drums. 

The other perhaps you have met with, as 
your noble friend the Dutchess has, I am 
told, heard of it. It was squeezed out of me 
by a brother parson in her neighbourhood, to 



* A plan of publishing a complete collection 
of Scottish Son'Ts. ^c. 



102 



LETT£R«>. 



aLWsommodate a new Highland reel for the I 
Marquis's birth-day, to the stanza of i 

" Tune your fiddles, tune them sweetly," &,c. 

If this last answer your purpose, you may j 
have it from a brother of mine, Mr. James I 
Skinner, v/riter in Edinburgh, who, 1 believe, 
can give the music too. 

There is another humourous thing I have 
heard, said to be done by the Catholic priest ; 
Geddes, and which hit my taste much : 

*' There was a wee wifeikie, was coming frae the i 

fair, 
Had gotten a little drapikie, which bred her mei- 

kie care, i 

It took upo' the wifie's heart, and she began to 

spew. 
And co' the wee wifeikie, I wish I binna fou, 

Ixoish, Sfc. 4*c. 

I have heard of another new composition, 
by a young ploughman of my acquaintance, 
that I am vastly pleased with, to the tune of 
3Vte Humours of Gien, which I fear wont do, 
as the music, I am told, is of Irish original. 
I have mentioned these, such as they are, to 
show my readiness to oblige you, and to con- 
tribute my mite, if I could, to the patriotic 
work you have in hand, and which I wish 
all success to. You have only to notify your 
mind, and what you want of the above shall 
be sent you. 

Meantime, while you are thus publicly, I 
may say, employed, do not sheath your own 
proper and piercing weapon. From what I 
have seen of yours already, I am inclined to 
hope for much good. One lesson of virtue 
and morality delivered in your anmsing style, 
and from such as you, will operate more than 
dozens would do from such as me, who shall 
be told it is our employment, and be never 
more minded : whereas, from a pen like 
yours, as being one of the many, what comes 
will be admired. Admiration will produce 
regard, and regard will leave an impression, 
especially ickcii example goes along. 

Now binna saying I'm ill bred, 
Else, by my troth, I'll not be glad, 
For cadgers, ye have heard it said, 

And sic like fry, 
Maun ay be harlaud in their trade, 

x\nd sae maun I. 

Wishing you, from my poet-pen, all suc- 
cess, and, in my other character, all happi- 
ness and heavenly direction, 

I remain, with esteem, 

Your sincere friend, 

JOHN SKINNER. 



No. XXXVII. 
FROM MRS. ROSE. 

Kilravock Castle, 30fA J^'ov. 1767. 



Sir, 

I HOPE you will do me the justice to be- 
lieve, that it was no defect in gratitude for 
your punctual performance of your parting 
promise, that has made me so long in ac- 
knowledging it, but merely the difficulty I 
had in getting the Highland songs you wish- 
ed to have, accurately noted ; they are at 
last enclosed : but how shall I convey along 
with them those graces they acquired from 
the melodious voice of one of the fair spirits 
of the Hill of Kildrummie ! These I must 
leave to j'our imagination to supply. It has 
powers sufficient to transport you to her side, 
to recall her accents, and to make them still 
vibrate in the ears of memory. To her i 
am indebted for getting the enclosed notes. 
They are clothed with " thoughts that 
breathe, and words that burn." These, how- 
ever, being in an unknown tongue to you, 
you must again have recourse to that same 
fertile imagination of yours to interpret them, 
and suppose a lover's description of the beau- 
ties of an adored mistress — Why did I say 
unknown ? the language of love is a uni- 
versal one, that seems to have escaped the 
confusion of Babel, and to be understood by 
all nations. 

I rejoice to find that you were pleased with 
so many things, persons, and places, in your 
northern tour,, because it leads me to hope 
you may be induced to revisit them again. 
That the old castle of Kilravock, and its in- 
habitants, were amongst these, adds to my 
satisfaction. I am even vain enough to ad- 
mit your very flattering application of the 
line of Addison's; at any rate, allow me to 
believe, that '' friendship will maintain the' 
ground she has occupied in both our hearts,' 
in spite of absence, and that when we do 
meet, it will be as acquaintance of a score 
years' standing; and on this footing consider 
me as interested in the future course of your 
fame so splendidly commenced. Any com- 
i munications of the progress of your muse 
I will be received with great gratitude, and 
! the fire of your genius will have power to 
warm even us, frozen sisters of the north. 

The fire-sides of Kilravock and Kildrum- 
mie unite in cordial regards to you. When 
you incline to figure either in your idea, sup- 
pose some of us reading your poems, and 
some of us singing your songs, and my little 
Hugh looking at your picture, and you'll sel- 
dom be wrong. We remember Mr. Nicol 
with as much good will as we can do any 
body who hurried Mr. Burns from us. 



LETlEKc^. 



103 



Farewell, Sir : I can only contribute thei 
widow's viite, to the esteem arid admiration 
excited by your merits and genius ; but this j 
I give, as she did, with all my heart — being 
sincerely yours. 

EL. ROSE. 



TO 



No. XXXIX. 
- DALRYMPLE, Esq. 



OF OUANGKFIELD. 



No. XXXVIII. 

TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

My Lord, 

I KNOW your Lordship will disapprove 
of my ideas in a request I am going to make 
to you, but! have weighed, long and serious- 
ly weighed, my situation, my hopes, and turn 
of mind, and am fulJy fixed to my scheme, if 
I can possibly effectuate it. I wish to get 
into the Excise ; I am told that your Lord- 
ship's interest will easily procure me the 
grant from the Commissioners ; and your 
Lordship's patronage and goodness, which 
have already rescued me from obscurity, 
wretchedness, and exile, embolden me to ask 
that interest. You have likewise put it in 
my power to save the little tie of home that 
sheltered an aged mother, two brothers, and 
three sisters, from destruction. There, my 
Lord, you have bound mo over to the high- 
est gratitude. 

My brother's farm is but a wretched lease ; 
but I think he v^ill probably weather out the 
remaining seven years of it ; and, after the 
assistance which I have given, and will give 
him, to keep the family together, 1 think, by 
my guess, I shall have rather better than two 
hundred pounds, and Instead of seeking what 
is almost impossible at present to find, a farm 
that I can certainly live by, with so small a 
stock, I sliall lodge this sum in a banking- 
house, a sacred deposit, excepting only the 
calls of uncommon distress, or necessitous 
old age J * * * * 

These, my Lord, are my views ; I have 
resolved from the inaturest deliberation ; and 
now I am fixed, J shall leave no stone un- 
turned to carry my resolve into execution. 
Your Lordship's patronage is the strength of 
my hopes , nor have I yet applied to an}' bo- 
dy else. Indeed my heart sinks within me 
at the idea of applying to anj- other of the 
Great who have honoured me with tlieir 
countenance. I atn ill qualified to dog the 
heels of greatness with the impertinence of 
solicitation, and tremble nearly as much at 
the thought of the cold promise, as the' cold 
denial : but to your Lordship I have not only 
the honour, the comfort, but the pleasure of 
being 

Your Lordship's much obliged, 

And deeply indebted humble servant, 



Edinburgh, 1787. 
Dkar Sir, 

I suppose the devil is so elated with his 
success with you, that he is determined, by a 
coup de main, to complete his purposes on 
you all at once, in making you a poet. I broke 
open the letter you sent me ; hummed over 
the rhymes ; and as I saw they were extem- 
pore, said to myself, they were very well ; 
but when I saw at the bottom a name I shall 
ever value with grateful respect, " I gapit 
wide but naething spak." I was nearly as 
much struck as the friends of Job, of afi[lic- 
tion-bearing memory, when they sat down 
with him seven days and seven nights, and 
spake not a word. 

* -f ■» « 

T am naturally of a superstitious cast, and 
as soon as my wonder-scared imagination 
regained its consciousness, and resumed its 
functions, I cast about what this mania of 
yours might portend. My foreboding ideas 
had the wide stretch of possibility ; and se- 
veral events, great in their magnitude, and 
important in their consequences, occurred to 
my fancy. The downfall of the conclave, or 
the crushing of the cork rumps ; a ducal co- 
ronet to Lord George G , and the pro- 

testant interest, or St. Peter's keys, to *^ * " 

You want to know how I come on. I am 
just in statu quo, or, not to insult a gentle- 
man with my Latin, in " auld use and wont." 
The noble Earl of Glencairn took me by the 
hand to-day, and interested himself in my 
concerns, with a goodness like that benevo- 
lent Being whose image he so richly bears. 
He is a stronger proof of the immortality of 
the soul than any that philosophy ever pro- 
duced. A mind like his can never die. Let 
the worshipful squire H L. or the reverend 
Mass J. M. go into their primitive nothing. 
At best, they are but ill-digested lumps of 
chaos, only one of them strongly tinged with 
bituminous particles and sulphureous efflu- 
via. But my noble patron, eternal as the he- 
roic swell of magnanimity, and the generous 
throb of benevolence, shall look on with 
princely eye at " the war of elements, the 
wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds." 



No. XL. 

I TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD. 
j December, 1787. 

j Sir, 

I Mr. M'Kenzie, in Mauchline, my verv 

j warm and worthy friend, has informed mr 



i04 



LETTER85. 



how much you are pleased to interest your- 
self in my fate as a man, and (what to me is 
incomparably dearer) my fame as a poet. 1 
liave, Sir, in one or two instances, been pa- 
tronised by those of your character in life, 
when I was introduced to their notice by * 
* * * * friends to them, and honoured 
acquaintance to me ; but you are the first 
gentleman in the country whose benevolence 
and goodness of heart have interested him 
for me, unsolicited and unknown. I am not 
master enough of the etiquette of these mat- 
ters to know, nor did I stay to inquire, whe- 
ther formal duty bade, or cold propriety dis- 
allowed, my thanking you \a this manner, 
as I am convinced, from the light in which 
you kindly view me, that you will do rne the 
justice to believe that this letter is not the 
mancBuvre of the needy, sharping author, 
fastening on those in upper life who honour 
Jiim with a little notice of him or his works. 
Indeed, the situation of poets is generally 
such, to a proverb, as may, in some measure, 
palliate that prostitution of art and talents 
they have at times been guilty of. I do not 
think prodigality is, by any means, a neces- 
sary concomitant of a poetic turn ; but I be- 
lieve a careless, indolent inattention to eco- 
nomy, is almost inseparable from it ; then 
there must be, in the heart of every bard of 
Nature's making, a certain modest sensibili- 
ty, mixed with a kind of pride, that will ever 
Iceep him out of the way of those windfalls of 
fortune, which frequently light on hardy im- 
pudence and footlicking servility. It is not 
easy to imagine a more helpless state than , 
his, whose poetic fancy unfits him for the i 
wojld, and whose character as a scholar gives j 
liim some pretensions to the poUtesse of life ' 
— yet is as poor as I am. 

For my part, I thank Heaven my star has 
been kinder ; learning never elevated my 
ideas above the peasant's shade, and I have 
an independent fortune at the plough-tail. 

I was surprised to hear that any one who 
pretended in the least to the manners of the 
gentleman, should be so foolish, or worse, as 
to stoop to traduce the morals of such a one 
as 1 am ; and so inhumanly cruel, too, as to 
rtieddle with that late most unfortunate, un- 
happy part of my story. With a tear of gra- 
titude, I thank you, Sir, for the warmth with 
which you interposed in behalf of my con- 
duct, I am, I acknowledge, too frequently 
the sport of whim, caprice, and passion — but j 
reverence to God, and integrity to my fellow 
creatures, I hope I shall ever preserve. I ; 
have no return. Sir, to make you for your 
goodness, but one — a return which, I am per- 
suaded, will not be unacceptable — tiie honest 
warm wishes of a grateful heart for your hap- 
piness, and every one of that lovely "flock who 
stand to you in a filial relation. If ever Ca- 
lumny aim the poisoned shaft at them, may 
friendship be by to ward the blow. 



^0. XLI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, 2\st January^ 178cJ. 

After six weeks' confinement, I am be- 
ginning to walk across the room. They have 
been six horrible weeks ; anguish and low spi- 
rits made me unfit to read, write, or think. 

I have a hundred times wished that one 
could resign life as an officer resigns a com- 
mission ; for I would not take in any poor, 
ignorant wretch, by selling out. Lately I 
was a sixpenny private, and, God knows, a 
miserable soldier enough : now I march to 
the campaign, a starving cadet ; a little more 
conspicuously wretched. 

I am ashamed of all this ; for though I do 
want bravery for the warfare of life, I could 
wish, like some other soldiers, to have as 
much fortitude or cunning as to dissemble or 
conceal my cowardice. • 

As soon as I can bear the journey, which 
will be, I suppose, about the middle of next 
week, I leave Edinburgh, and soon after I 
shall pay my grateful duty at Dunlop-House. 



No. XLII. 
EXTRACT OF A LETTER. 

TO THE SAME. 

Edinburgh, I2th February, 1788. 

Some things in your late letters hurt 
mc : not that you say them, but that you jnis' 
take me. Religion, my honoured Madam, 
has not only been all my life my chief de- 
pendence, but my dearest enjoyment. I have 
indeed been the luckless victim of wayward 
follies : but, alas ! I have ever been " more 
fool than knave " ATnathematician without 
religion is a probable character ; und an ir- 
religious poet is a monster. 



No. XLIII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Mossgielf 7th March, 1787. 
Madam, 

The last paragraph in yours of the 30th 
February affected me most, so I shall begin 
my answer where you ended your letter. — 
That I am often a sinner with any little wit 
I have, I do confess ; but I have taxed n)v 



LKTTEKS. 



105 



recollection to no purpose to find out vvJien 
it was employed against you. I hate an un- 
generous sarcasm a great deal worse than I 
do the devil ; at least, as Milton describes 
him ; and though I may be rascally enough 
to be guilt}' of it myself, I cannot endure it 
in others. You, my honoured friend, who 
cannot appear in any light but you are sure 
of being respectable — you can afford to pass 
by an occasion to display your wit, because 
you inay depend for fame on your sense ; or, 
if you choose to be silent, you know you can 
rely on the gratitude of many and the esteem 
of all ; but, God help us who are wits or wit- 
lings by profession, if we stand not for fame 
there, we sink unsupported ! 

I am highly flattered by the news you tell 
me of Coila." I may say to the fair pairter 
who does me so much honour, as Dr. Beat- 
tie says to Ross the poet of his muse Scota, 
from which, by the by, I took the idea of 
Coila: ('tis u poem of Beattie's in the Scots 
dialect, which perhaps you have never seen.) 

" Ye shak your head, but o' my fegs, , 
Ye've set auld Scota on her legs : 
Lang had she lien wi' buffe and llegs, 

Bombaz'd and dizzie, 
Her fidddle wanted strings and pegs, 

Waes nie, poor hizzie I" 



No. XLIV. 

TO MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN. 
Mauchline, 31st March, 1788. 

Yesterday, my dear Sir, as I was rid- 
ing through a track of melancholy, joyless 
muirs, between Galloway and Ayrshire, it 
being Sunday, I turned my thoughts to 
psalms, and hymns, and spiritual songs; and 
vour favourite air Captain Okean, coming at 
length in my head, I tried these words to 
it. You will see that the first part of the 
tune must be repeated.f 

I am tolerably pleased with these verses ; 
but, as I have only a sketch of the tune, I 
leave it with you to try if they suit the mea- 
sure of the music. 

I am so harrassed with care and anxiety 
about this farming project of mine, that my 
muse has degenerated into the veriest prose- 
wench that ever picked cinders or followed a 
tinker. When I am fairly got into the rou- 
tine of business, I shall trouble you with a 

* A lady (daughter of Mrs. Dunlop) was mak- 
ing a picture from the description of Coila in the 
Vision. E. 

f Here the Bard gives the first stanza of the 
" Chevalier's Lament." 



longer epistle ; perhaps with some queries 
respecting farming ; at present the world 
sits such a load on my mind, that it has ef- 
faced almost every trace of the in me. 

My very best compliments and good wishes 
to Mrs. Clecrhorn. 



No. XLV. 
FROM MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN. 

Saughton MUls,27thJpril, 1788, 

My Dear Brother Farmer, 

I WAS favoured with your very kind let- 
ter of the 31st ult., and consider myself 
greatly obliged to you for your attention in 
sending me the song* to my favourite air, 
Captain Okean. The words delight me much, 
they fit the tune to a hair. I wish you would 
send me a verse or two more ; and if you 
have no objection, I would have it in the Ja- 
cobite style. Suppose it should be sung after 
the fatal field of Cullod"en by the unfortunate 
Charles. Tenducci personates the lovely 
Mary Stuart in the song, Queen Mary^s La- 
mentation. Why may not I sing in the per- 
son of her great-great-great-grandson ?1; 

Any skill I have in country-business you 
may truly command. Situation, soil, cus- 
toms of countries, may vary from each other, 
but Farmer Attention is a good farmer in 
every place. I beg to hear from you soon. 
Mrs. Cleghorn joins me in best compliments. 

lam, in the most comprehensive sense of 
the word, your very sincere friend, 

ROBERT CLEGHORN. 



No. XLVL 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Mauchline, 28th April, 1788. 
Madam, 

Your powers of reprehension must be 
great indeed, as I assure you they made my 
heart ache with penitential pangs, even 
though I was reall}' not guilty. As I com- 
mence farmer at Whitsunday, you will easi- 
ly guess I must be pretty L,usy ; but that is 
not all. As I got the offer of the excise bu- 
siness without solicitation ; as it costs me 
only six months attendance for instructions 



* The Chevalier's Lament. 

f Our Poet took this advice. Tlie whole of 
this beautiful song, as it was afterwards finished, 
if? inserted in the Poems, p. 79. 



106 



V LETTERS. 



to entitle me to a commission, whicii com- 
mission lies by me, and at any future 
periid, on my simple petition, can be re- 
sumed : I thought five-and-thirty pounds a- 
vear was no bad dernier resort for a poor 
})oet, if fortune, in her jade tricks, should 
kick him down from the little eminence to 
which she has lately helped him up. 

For this reason, I am at present attending 
these instructions, to have them completed 
before Whitsunday. Still, Madam, 1 pre- 
pared, with the siucerest pleasure, to meet 
you at the Mount, and came to my brother s 
on Saturday night, to set out on Sunday } 
but for some nights preceding, I had slept in 
an apartment where the force of the winds 
and rains was only mitigated by being sifted 
through numberless apertures in the win- 
dows, walls, &c. In consequence, I was on 
Sunday, Monday, and part of Tuesday, una- 
ble to stir out of bod, with all the miserable 
eifects of a violent cold. 

You see, Ma'dam, the truth of the French 
maxim, Le vrai n'est pas Loujours le trai scm- 
blable. Your last wa^ so fiill of expostula- 
tion, and was something so like the language 
of an offended friend, that I began to tremble 
for a correspondence which I had with grate- 
ful pleasure set down as one of the greatest 
enjoyments of my future life. 



Your books have delighted me : Virgil, 
Dryden, and Tasso, were all equally stran- 
gers to me ; but of this more at large in my 
next. 



No. XL VII. 

FROM THE REV. JOHN SKINNER. 

Linsheart, 2&tk Ajnil, 1788. 
Dear Sir, 

I RECEHED your last with the curious 
present you have favoured me with, and 
would have made proper acknowledgments 
before now, but that I have been necessarily 
engaged in matters of a different complexion. 
And now, that 1 have got a little respite. I 
make use of it to thank you for tliis valuable 
instance of your goodwill, and to assure you 
that, with the sincere heart of a true Scots- 
man, I highly esteem both the gift and the 
giver ; as a small testimony of which I have 
herewith sent you for your amusement (and 
in a form which I hope you will excuse for 
saving postage) the two songs I wrote about 
to you already Charming Nancy is the real 
production of genius in a ploughman of 
twenty years of age at the time of its appear- 
ing, with no more education than what ho 
picked up at an old farmer-grandfathrr's fire- 



side, though now by the strength of natural 
parts, he is clerk to a thriving bJeach-field in 
the neighbourhood . A nd I doubt not but you 
will find in it <i simplicity and delicacy, with 
some turns of humour, that will please one of 
your taste ; at least it pleased me when I first 
saw it, if that can be any recommendation to 
it. The other is entirely descriptive of my 
own sentiments : and you may make use of 
one or both as you shall see good.* 



* CHARMING NAiNCV. 
A SONG BY A BUCIIAN PLOUGHMAN. 

'func — ♦' Humours of Glen." 

Some sing of sweet Mally, some sing of fair Nelly, 

And some call sweet Susie the cause of their 
pain ; 
Some love to he jolly, some love melancholy, 

Andsome love to sing of the Humours of Glen. 
But my only fancy is my pretty Nancy, 

In venting my passion I'll strive to be plain ; 
I'll ask no more treasure, I'll seek no more pleasure, 

But thee, my dear Nancy, gin thou wen my ain . 

Her beauty deligtits me, her kindness invites me, 

Her pleasant behaviour is free from all stain ; 
Therefore, my sweet jewel, O do not prove cruel ; 

Consent, my dear Nancy, and come, be my ain. 
Her carriage is comely, her language is homely, 

Her dress is quite decent when ta'en in the 
main ; 
She's blooming in feature, she's handsome in 
stature, 

My charnung dear Nanc)'^, O vvert thou my ain ! 

Like PhcEbiis adorning the fair ruddy morning, 

Her bright eyes are sparkling, her brows are 
serene, 
Her yellow locks shining, in beauty combining, 

MycharmingsweetNancy,vviltthonhemy ain ? 
The whole of her face is with maidenly grace 

Array'd like the gowans that grow in yon glen ; 
She's well shap'd and slender, true-hearted and 
tender. 

My charming sweet Nancy, O wertthoumy ain ! 

I'll seek thro' the nation for some habitation. 

To shelter my jewel from cold, snow, and rain ; 
With songs to my deary, I'll keep her ay cheery. 

My charming sweet Nancy, gin thou wert my 
ain. 
I'll work at my calling to furnish thy dwelling, 

With ev'ry thing needful tiiy life to sustain ; 
Thou shall not sit single, but by a clear ingle, 

I'll marrow thee, Nancy, when thou art my ain. 

I'll make true affection the constant direction 

Of loving my Nancy, while life doth remain ; 
Tho' youth will be wasting-, true love shall be 
lasting. 
My charming sweet Nancy, gin thou wert my 
ain. 
But what if my Nancy should alter her fancy, 

To favour another be forward and fain, 
I will not compel her, but plainly I'll tell her, 
Begone, thoti false Nancy, thoii'se ne'er be n.y 
ain. 



LETTERS. 



107 



You will oblige me by presenting my res- 
pects to your host, Mr. Cruickshank, who 
has given such high approbation to my poor 
Latinity ; you may let him know, that as 1 
have likewise been a dabbler in Latin poetry, 
I have two things that 1 would, if he desires 
it, submit, not to his judgment, but to his 



THE OLD MAN'S SONG. 
BY THE REVEREND J. SKINNER. 

Tune — " Dumbarton Drums." 

O ! why should old age so much wound us ? O, 
Tiiere is nothing in't all to confound us, O, 

For how happy now am I, 

With my old wife sitting by, 
And our bairns and our oys all around us, O. 

We began in the world wi' naething, O, 
And we've jogo'd on and toil'd for the ae thing, O, 
We made use of what we had, 
And our thankful hearts were glad, 
When we got the bit meat and the claething, 0. 

We have liv'd all our life-time contented, O, 
Since the day we became first acquainted, O, 

It's true weWe been but poor. 

And we are so to this hour, 
Yet we never yet repined nor lamented, O. 

We ne'er thought of schemes to be wealthy, O, 
By ways that were cunning or stealih}^ O, 
But we always had the bliss. 
And what further could we wiss. 
To be pleas'd wi' ourselves, and be healthy, O. 

What tho' we canna boast of our guineas, O, 
W^e have plenty of Jockies and Jeanies, O, 

And these I'm certain, are 

More desirable by far. 
Than a pocket full of poor yellow sleeiues, O. 

We have seen many wonder and ferlie, O, 
Of changes that almost are yearly, O, 

Among rich folks up and down, 

Both in country and in town. 
Who now live but scrimply and barely, O. 

Then why should people brag of prosperity, O, 
A straitened life we see is no rarit}% O, 

Indeed we've been in want, 

And our livit^g been but scant. 
Yet we never were reduced to need charity, O. 

In this liouse we first came together, O, 
Where we've long been a Father and a Mither, O ; 

And, tlio' not of stone and lime, 

It will last us a' our time, 
And, I hope, we shall never need anither, O, 

And when we leave this habitation, O, 
We'll depart with a good commendation, O, 

We'll go hand in hand I wiss, 

To a better house than this. 
To make room for the next generation , O. 

Then why should old age so much \Tound us .' O, 
There's nothing in't all to confound us, O, 

For how happy now am I, 

With my old wife sitting by. 
And our bairns and our oys all around us, O. 

37 



amusement; the one, a translation of ChrisVs 
Kirk o' the Green, printed at Aberdeen some 
years ago ; the other, Batrachomyomachia. 
Homer I latinis vestita cum additamcntis, give n 
in lately to Chalmers, to print if he pleases. 
Mr. C. will know Strianon semper delcctant, 
non joca semper. Semper dclectant seria 
mixta jocis. 

I have just room to repeat compliments 
and good v.'ishes, from, 

Sir, your humble servant, 
JOHN SKINNER. 



No. XLVUI. 
TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART. 



Sir, 



Mauchline, 3d May, 1788. 



I ENCLOSE you one or two more of my 
bagatelles. If the fervent wishes of honest 
gratitude have any influence with that great 
unknov.'n Being, who frames the chain of 
causes and events, prosperity and happiness 
will attend your visit to the Continent, and 
return you safe to your native shore. 

Wherever I am, allow me. Sir, to claim it 
as my privilege to acquaint you with my 
progress in my trade of rhymes ; as I am ^ 
sure I could say it with truth, that next to my 
little fame, and the having it in my power to 
make life more comfortable to those whom 
nature has made dear to mo, I shall ever re- 
gard your countenance, your patronage, your 
friendly.good offices, as the jiiost valued con- 
sequence of my late success in life. 



No. XLIX. 

EXTRACT OF A LETTER 

TO MRS. DUJNLOP. 

MaucJdine, 4tk May, 1788. 
Madam, 
Dryden's Virgil has delighted me. 1 
do not know whether the critics will agree 
with me, but the Georgics are to mo by far 
the best of Virgil. It is, indeed, a species of 
writing entirely new to me, and has filled my 
head with a thousand fancies of emulation : 
but, alas ! v^hen I read the Georgks and then 
survey my own powers, 'tis like the idea of 
a Shetland pony, drawn up by the side of a 
thorough-bred hunter, to start for the plate. 
I own lam disappointed in the JEneid. Fault- 
less correctness may please, and does highly 
please the lettered critic : but to that awful 
character I have not the most distant preten- 
sions. I do not know \vhethei I do not hazard 



108 



LETTERS^, 



my prelensions to be a critic of any kind, 
when I say, that I think Virgil, in many in- 
stances, a servile copier of Homer. If I had 
the Odyssey by me, I could parallel many 
passages where Virgil has evidently copied, 
but by no means improved Homer. Nor can 
I think there is any thing of this owing to the 
translators; for, from every thing I liave seen 
of Dryden, I think him, in genius and fluency 
of language, Pope's master. I have not pe- 
rused Tasso enough to form an opinion ; in 
some future letter you shall have my ideas of 
him ; though I am conscious my criticisms 
must be very inaccurate and imperfect, as 
there I have ever felt and lamented my want 
of learninor most. 



No. L. 

TO THE SAME. 

27ih May, 1788. 
IMadam, 

I HAVE been torturing my philosophy to 
no purpose to account for that kind partiality 
ofyours, which, unlike * * * has follow- 
ed me in my return, to the shade of life, with 
assiduous benevolence. Often did I regret, 
in the fleeting hours of my Will-o'-Wisp ap- 
pearance, that *' here I had no continuing 
city ;" and, but for the consolation of a few 
solid guineas, could almost lament the time 
that a momentary acquaintance with wealth 
and splendour put me so much out of conceit 
with the sworn companions of my road 
through life, insignificance and poverty. 



There are few circumstances relating to 
the unequal distribution of the good things 
of this life, that give me more vexation (I 
mean in what I see around me,) than the im- 
portance the opulent bestow on their trifling 
family affairs, compared with the very same 
things on the contracted scale of a cottage. 
Last afternoon I had the honour to spend an 
hour or two at a good woman's fire-side, 
where the planks that composed the floor 
were decorated with a splendid carpet, and the 
gay tables sparkled with silver and china. 
'Tis now about term-day, and there has been 
a revolution among those creatures, who, 
though in appearance partakers, and equally 
noble partakers, of the same nature with 
Madame, are from time to time, their nerves, 
their sinews, their health, strength, wisdom, 
experience, genius, time, nay, a good part of 
their very thoughts, sold for months and 
years, * * * « not only to 
the necessities, the conveniences, but the 
caprices of the important few.* We talked 

* Servants, in Scotland, are hired from term to 
ferm; ?'. e. from Whitsunday to Martinmas, &c. 



of the insignificant creatures ; nay, notwith- 
standing theii general stupidity and rascality, 
did some of the poor devils the honour to 
commend them. But light be the turf upon 
his breast who taught — " Reverence thyself." 
We looked down on the unpolished wretches, 
their impertinent wives and clouterly brats, 
as the lordly bull does on the little dirty ant- 
hill, whose puny inhabitants he crushes in the 
carelessness of his rambles, or tosses in the 
air in the wantonness of his pride. 



No. LI. 



TO THE SAME. 

AT MR. DUKLOP'S, HADDINGTON. 

Ellisland, 13th June, 1786. 

" Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see, 
My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee, 
Still to my friend turns with ceaseless pain, 
And drags at each remove a lengthen'd chain." 

Goldsmith. 

This is the second day, my honoured friend, 
that I have been on my farm. A solitary 
inmate of an old smoky Spence ; far from 
every object Hove, or by whom I am beloved; 
nor any acquaintance older than yesterday, 
except Jen7i?/ Geddes, the old mare I ride on ; 
while uncouth cares and novel plans hourly 
insult my awkward ignorance and bashful 
inexperience. There is a foggy atmosphere 
native to my soul in the hour of care, conse- 
quently the dreary objects seem larger than 
the life. Extreme sensibility, irritated and 
prejudiced on the gloomy side by a series 
of misfortunes and disappointments, at that 
period of my existence when the soul is lay- 
ing in her cargo of ideas for the voyage of 
life, is, I believe, the principal cause of this 
unhappy frame of mind. 

" The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer .'' 
Or what need he regard his single woes ?" &c. 

Your surmise. Madam, is just; I am in- 
deed a husband. 



I found a once much-loved and still much- 
loved female, literally and truly cast out to 
the mercy of the naked elements ; but I ena- 
bled her to purchase a shelter ; and there is 
no sporting with a fellow creature's happi- 
ness or misery. 

The most placid good nature and sweet- 
ness of disposition ; a warm heart, gratefully 
devoted with all its powers to love me ; vi- 
gorous health and sprightly cheerfulness, 
set off to the best advantage by a more than 



LETTERS. 



109 



commonly handsome figure ; these, I think, 
in a woman, may make a good wife, though 
she should never have read a puge but the 
Scriptures of the Old and JVeio Testament, 
nor have danced in a brighter assembly than 
a penny-pay wedding. 



No. LII. 
TO MR. P. HILL. 

My Dear Hill, 

I shall say nothing at all to your mad 
present — you have long and often been of j 
important service to me, and I suppose you 
mean to go on conferring obligations until I | 
shall not be able to lift up my face before you. ; 
In the meantime, as Sir Roger de Coverly, | 
because it happened to be a cold day in which | 
he made his will, ordered his servants great \ 
coats for mourning, so, because I have been 
this week plagued with an indigestion, I 
have sent you by the carrier a fine old ewe- 
milk cheese. 

Indigestion is the devil : nay, 'tis the devil 
and all. It besets a man in every one of his 
senses. I lose my appetite at the sight of 
successful knavery, and sicken to loathing at 
the noise and nonsense of self-important fol- 
ly. When the hollow-hearted wretch takes 
me by the hand, the feeling spoils my dinner ; 
the proud man's wine so offends my palate 
that it chokes me in the gullet ; and the pul- 
■vilised, feathered, pert coxcomb, is so dis- 
gustful in my nostril that my stomach turns. 

If ever you have any of these disagreeable 
sensations, let me prescribe for you patience I 
and a bit of my cheese. I know that you are 
no niggard of your good things among your 
friends, and some of them are in much need ' 
of a slice. There in my eye is our fiiend 
Smellie ; a man positively of the first abili- j 
ties and greatest strength of mind, as well as | 
one of the best hearts and keenest wits | 
that I have ever met with ; when you see i 
him, as alas ! he too is smarting at the pinch 
of distressful circumstances, aggravated by 
the sneer of contumelious greatness — a bit 
of my cheese alone will not cure him; but if 
you add a tankard of brown stout, and su- 
peradd a magnum of right Oporto, you will 
see his sorrows vanish like the morning mist 
before the summer sun. 

C h, the earliest friend, except my on- 
ly brother, that I have on earth, and one of 
the worthiest fellows that ever any man 
called by the name of friend, if a luncheon 
of my cheese would help to rid him of some 
of his superabundant modesty, you would do 
well to ffive it him. 



David,* with his Courant, comes loo, across 
my recollection, and I beg you will help him 
largely from the said ewe-milk cheese, to 
enable him to digest those bedaubing para- 
graphs with which he is eternally lauding the 
lean characters of certain great men in a cer- 
tain great town. I grant you the periods are 
very well turned ; po, a fresh egg is a very 
good thing, but when thrown at a man in a 
pillory it does not all improve his figure, not 
to mention the irreparable loss of the egg. 

My facetious friend, D r, I would wisli 

also to be a partaker; not to digest his spleen, 
for that he laughs off, but to digest his last 
night's wine at the last field day of the Croch- 
allan corps. t 

Among our common friends, I must not 
forget one of the dearest of them, Cunning- 
ham. The brutality, insolence, and selfish- 
ness of a world unworthy of having such a 
fellow as he is in it, I know sticks in his sto- 
mach ; and if you can help him to any thing 
that will make him a little easier on that 
score, it will be very obliging. 



As to honest J- 



-e, he is such a 



contented happy man, that I know not what 
can annoy him, except perhaps he may not 
have got the better of a parcel of modest 
anecdotes which a certain poet gave him one 
night at supper, the last time the said poet 
was in town. 

Though I have mentioned so many men of 
law, I shall have nothing to do with them 
professedly. — The faculty are beyond my 
prescription. As to their clients, that is ano- 
ther thing : God knows they have much to 
digest ! 

The clergy I pass by : their jprofundity of 
erudition, and their liberality of sentiment ; 
their total want of pride, and their detesta- 
tion of hypocrisy, are so proverbially noto- 
rious, as to place them far, far above either 
my praise or censure. 

I was going to mention a man of worth, 
whom I have the honour to call friend, the 
Laird of Craigdarroch : but I have spoken ta 
the landlord of the King's Arms Inn here, to 
have, at the next county meeting, a large 
ewe-milk cheese on the table, for the benefit 
of the Dumfrie.-^shire whigs, to enable them 
to digest the late Dukeof Queensberry's late 
political conduct. 

I have just this moment an opportunity of 
a private hand to Edinburgh, or perhaps you 
would not digest double postage. 



* Printer of the Edinburgh Evening Courant 
+ A club of rhnice spirits 



110 



LETTERS. 



i\o. LIU, 
TO MRS. DUNLOr. 

MauddinCy 2tZ Jugust, 1768. 

Honoured Madam, 

Your kind letter welcomed me, jj^ester- 
iiight, to Ayrshire, I am indeed seriously 
angry with you at the quantiLm of your luck- 
pennij : but, vexed and nurt as I was, I could 
not help laughing very heartily at the noble 
lord's apology for the missed napkin. 

I would write you from Nithsdale, and give 
you my direction there, but I have scarce an 
opportunity of calling at a post-ofilce once in 
a fortnight. I am six miles from Dumfries, 
am scarcely ever in it myself, and, as yet, 
have little acquaintance in the neighbour- 
hood, Besides, I am now very busy on my 
farm, building a dwelling-house ; as at pre- 
sent I am almost an evangelical man in 
Nithsdale, for I have scarce '' where to la\' 
my head." 

There are some passages in your last that 
brought tears into my eyes. " The heart 
knoweth its own sorrows, and a stranger in- 
termeddleth not therewith." The repository 
of these '• sorrows of the heart," is a kind of 
sanctum sanctorum ; and 'tis only a chosen 
friend, and that too at particular sacred times, 
who dares enter into them 

" Heaven oft tears the bosom chords 
That nature hiiesi strung." 

You will excuse this quotation for,the sake 
of the author. Instead of entering on this 
subject farther, I shall transcribe you a few 
lines I wrote in a hermitage belonging to a 
gentleman in my Nithsdale neighbourhood. 
They are almost the only favours the muses 
have conferred on me in that country.* 

Since! am in the way of transcribing, the 
following were the production of yesterday, 
as I jogged through the wild hills of New- 
Cumnock. I intend inserting them, or some- 
thing like them, in an epistle I am going te 
write to the gentleman on whose friendship 
my excise hopes depend, Mr. Graham, of 
Finlry, one of the worthiest and most accom- 
plished gentlemen, not only of this country, 
but I will dare to say it, of this age. The 
following are just the first crude Ihouo-hts 
/ unhouseled, unanointed, unannealed."'' 

Pity the tuneful muses' helpless train : 
Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main •. 
The world were bless'd, did bliss on t)icin depend; 
Ah ! that the friendly e'er should want a friend ! 
The little fate bestows they share as soon ; 
Unlike sage, proverb'd vvisdoni'shard-wrungboon. 

* The lines transcribed were those written in 
Friars-Carse Hermitage. Sec Poems p. 66. 



Let prudence number o'er each sturdy sou 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun ; 
Who feel by reason, and wlio give by rule ; 
(Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool !) 
Who make poor will do wait upon I should; 
We own they're prudent, but who owns they're 

good .'' 
Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! 
Cod's image rudely etclfd on base alloy ! 
But come — 

Here the muse left me, I am astonished 
at what you tell me of Anthony's writing me. 
I never received it. Poor fellovv ! you vex 
me much by telling me he is unfortunate. I 
shall be in Ayrshire ten days from this date. 
I have just room for an old Roman farewell '. 



No. LIV. 
TO THE SAME. 

Maw-'hline, Idth August, 1788. 

My MUCH HONOURED FRi:eND, 

Yours of the 24th June is before me. I 
found it, as well as another valued friend — 
my wife, wailing to welcome me to Aja-- 
shire : I met both with the sincerest pleasure. 

When I write you, Madam, I do not sit, 
down to answer every paragraph of yours, 
by echoing every sentiment, like the faith- 
ful Commons of Great Britain in Parliament 
assembled, answering a speech from the best 
of kings ! I express myself in the fulness of 
my heart, and may perhaps be guilty of neg- 
lecting some of your kind inquiries ; but not 
from your very odd reason, that I do not read 
your letters. All your epistles for several 
months have cost me nothing, except a 
swelling throb of gratitude, or a deep felt 
sentiment of veneration. 

Mrs. Burns, Madam, is the identical wo- 
man 



When she found herself " as women wish <o 
be who love their lords," as I loved her nearly 
to distraction, we took steps for a private 
marriage. Her parents got the hint ; and 
not only forbade me her company and the 
house, but, on my rumoured West-Indian 
voyage, got a warrant to put me in jail till 
I should find security in iny about-to-be pa- 
ternal relation. You know my lucky reverse 
of fortune. On my eclatont return to Mauch- 
line, I was made very welcome to visit my 
girl. The usual consequences began to be- 
tray her ; and as I was at that time laid up 
a cripple in Edinburgh, she was turned, lite- 
rally turned out of doors ; and I wrote to a 
friend to shelter her till my return, when our 
marriage was declared. Her happiness or 



LETTERS. 



Ill 



misery were in my hands ; and who could I acid chagrin, that would corrode the very 
trifle with such a deposite ? | thread o? life. 

To counteract these baneful feelings, I 
have sat down. to write to you ; as I declare 
upon my soul, I always find that the most so- 
vereign balm for my wounded spirit. 



I can easily fancy a more agreeable com- 
panion for my journey of life, but, upon my 
honour, I have never seen the individual in- 
stance 



Circumstanced as I am, I could never have 
got a female partner for life, who could have 
entered into my favourite studies, relished 
my favourite authors, &c- without probably 
entailing on me, at the samo lime, expensive 
living, mntastic caprice, perhaps apish af- 
fectation, with all the other blessed board- 
ing-school acquirements, which {pardonnez 
moi, Madame,) are sometimes to be found 
among females of the upper ranks, but almost 
universally pervade the misses of the would- 
be gentry. 



I like your way in your chiirch-yard lucu- 
brations. Thoughts that are the spontaneous 
result of accidental situations, either res- 
pecting health, place, or company, havo often 
a strength and always an originality, that 
would in vain be looked for in fancied cir- 
cumstances and studied paragraphs. For 
me, I have often thought of keeping a letter, 
in progression, by me, to send you when the 
sheet was written out. Now I talk of sheets, 
I must tell you, my reason for writing to you 
on paper of this kind, is my pruriency of writ- 
ing to you at large. A page of post is on 
such a dissocial narrow-minded scale that I 
cannot abide it ; and double letters, at least 
in my miscellaneous reverie manner, are a 
monstrous tax in a close correspondence. 



No. LV. 



TO THE SAME. 

EUisland, IGth August, 1788. 

I am in a fine disposition, my honoured 
friend, to send you an elegiac epistle; and 
want only genius to make it quite Shensto- 
uian. 

" Why droops my heart with fancied woes for- 
lorn ? 
Why sinks my soul beneath each wint'ry sky ?" 



My increasing cares in this, as yet, strange 
country — gloomy conjectures in the dark 
vista of futurity — consciousness of my own 
inabiUty for the struggle of the world — my 
broadened mark to misfortune in a wife and 
children ; — I could indulge these reflections, 
till rov humour should ferment into the most 



I was yesterday at Mr. 'sto dinner for 

the first time My reception was quite to 
my mind: from the lady of the house, quite 
flattering. She sometimes hit on a couplet 
or tv»;fo, improni-ptu. She rept^ated one or 
two to the admiration of all present. My 
suffrage as a professional man was expected; 
I for unce went agonizing over the belly of 
my consci'.nce. Pardon me, ye my adored 
household gods — Independence of Spirit, and 
integrity of Soul ! In Ihe course of conver- 
sati(jn, Johnsori's Musicat Museum, a colloc- 
tion of Scottish songs with the music, was 
talked of. We got a song on the harpsichord, 
beginning, 

*' Raving winds around her blowing."* 

The air was much admired; the lady of 
the house asked me whose were the words ; 
" Mine, Madam — they are indeed my very 
best verses:" she took not the smallest no- 
tice of them ! The old Scottish proverb says 
well, " king's caff is better than ither folk's 
corn" I was going to make a New Testa- 
ment quotation about " casting pearls ;" but 
that wovUd be too virulent, for the lady is ac- 
tually a woman of sense and taste. 



After all that has been said on the other 
side of the question, man is by lio means a 
happy creature. I do not speak of the se- 
lected fev? favoured by partial heaven, whose 
souls are turned to gladness, amid riches and 
honours, and prudence and wisdom. I speak 
of the neglected many, whose nerves, whose 
sinews, whose days, are sold to the minions 
of fortune. 

If I thought you had never seen it, I would 
transcribe for you a stanza of an old Scot- 
tish ballad, called The Life and Age of Man; 
beginning thus : 

" 'Twas in the sixteenth hunder year 

Of God and fifty-three, 
Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, 

As writings testifie." 

I had an old grand-uncle, with whom my 
mother lived a while in her girlish years ; 
the good old man, for such he was, was long 
blind ere lu; died, during which time, his 
highest enjoyment was to sit down and cry, 
while my mother would sing the simple old 
song of The Life and Age of Man. 

* See Poems, p. ITS. 



112 



LETTERS. 



It is this way of thinking, it is these me- 
lancholy truths, that make religion so pre- 
cious to the poor, miserable children of men 

if it is a mere phantom, existing only in 

the heated imagination of enthusiasm, 

" What truth on earth so precious as the lie?" 

My idle reasoning sometimes makes me a 
little sceptical, but the necessities of my 
heart always give the cold philosophizmgs 
the lie. Who looks for the heart weaned 
from earth; the soul affianced to her God ; 
the correspondence fixed with heaven ; the 
pious supplication and devout thanksgiving, 
constant as the vicissitudes of eveu and morn; 
who thinks to meet with these in the court, 
the palace, in the glare of public life? No: 
to find them in their precious importance and 
divine efficacy, we must search among the 
obscure recesses of disappointment, afflic- 
tioa, poverty, and distress. 

I am sure, dear Madam, you are now more 
than pleased with the length of my letters. I 
return to Ayrshire middle of next week ; and 
it quickens my pace to think that there will 
be a letter from you waiting me there. I 
must be here again very soon for my harvest. 



NO. LVI. 
TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. OF FINTRY. 

Sir, 

When I had the honour of being intro- 
duced to you at Athole-house, I did not think 
so soon of asking a favour of you When 
Lear, in Shakspeare, asks old Kent why he 
wishes to be in iis service, he answers, 
" Because you have that in your face which 
I could like to call master." For sofJie such 
reason, Sir, do I now solicit vour patronage. 
You know, I dare say, of an application I 
lately made to your Board to be admitted an 
officer of excise. I have, according to form, 
been examined by a supervisor, aid to-day I 
give in his certificate, with a request for an 
order for instructions. In this affair, if I 
succeed, I am afraid I shall but too much 
need a patronising friend. Propriety of con- 
duct as a man, and fidelity and attention as 
an officer, I dare engage for: but with any 
thing like business, except manual labour, I 
am totally unacquainted. 



I had intended to have closed my late ap- 
pearance on the stage of life in the charac- 
ter of a country farmer; but, after discharg- 
ing some filial and fraternal claims, I find I 
could only fight for existence in that misera- 
ble manner, which T have lived to see throw 



a venerable parent into the jaws of a jaii ; 
whence death, the poor man's last and often 
best friend, rescued him. 

I know, Sir, that to need your goodness is 
to have a claim on it ; may I therefore beg 
your patronage to forward me in this affair, 
till I be appointed to a division, where, by 
the help of rigid economy, I will try to sup- 
port that independence so dear to my soul, 
but which has been too often so distant from 
my situation.* 



No. LVII. 
TO MR. PETER HILL. 

Mauchline, 1st October, 1788. 

I have been here in this country about 
three days, and all that time my chief read- 
ing has been the • ' Address to Loch-Lomond,' 
you were so obliging as to send me. Were 
I empannelled one of the author's jury to de- 
termine his criminality respecting the sin of 
poesy, my verdict sho>uld be ** guilty ! A 
poet of Nature's making." It is an excellent 
method for improvement, and what I believe 
every poet does, to place some favourite clas- 
sic author, in his own walk of study and com- 
position, before him as a model. Though 
your author had not mentioned the name, I 
could have, at half a glance, guessed his mo- 
del to be Thomson. Will my brother-poet 
forgive me, if 1 venture to hint, that his imi- 
tation of that immortal bard is, in two or 
three places, rather more servile than such a 
genius as his required — e. g. 

To sooth the madding passions all to peace. 

ADDRESS. 

To sooth the throbbing passions into peace. 

THOMSON. 

I think the Address is, in simplicity, har- 
mony, and elegance of versification, fully 
equal to the Seasons. Like Thomson, too, 
he has looked into nature for himself; you 
meet with no copied description One par- 
ticular criticism I made at first reading ; in 
no one instance has he said too much. He 
never flags in his progress, but, like a true 
poet of Nature's making, kindles inhis course. 
His beginning is simple and modest, as if dis- 
trustful of the strength of his pinion ; only, 
I do not altogether like — 

" Truth, 
The soul of every song that's nobly great." 

Fiction is the soul of many a song that is 
nobly great. Perhaps I am wrong : this may 

* Here followed the poetical part of the Epis- 
tle, given in the Poems, p. 82. 



LETTERjjJ. 



113 



be but a prose-criticism. Is not the phrase, 
in li7ie 7, page 6, " Great Lake," too much 
vulgarized by every day language, for so sub- 
lime a poem ? 

*' Great mass of waters, theme for nobler song," 

is perhaps no emendation. His enumeration 
of a comparison with other lakes is at once 
harmonious and poetic. Every reader's ideas 
must sweep the 

" Winding jnargin of an hundred miles." 

The perspective that follows mountains 
blue — the imprisoned billows beating in vain 
— the wooded isles — the digression on the 
yew tree — " Ben-Lomond's lofty cloud en- 
velop'd head," &c. are beautiful. A thun- 
der-storm is a subject which has been often 
tried ; yet our poet in his grand picture, has 
interjected a circumstance, so far as I know, 
entirely original : 

«» The gloom, 
Deep seam'd with frequent streaks of moving fire." 

In his preface to the storm, " The glens, 
how dark between !" is noble highland land- 
scape. The " Rain ploughing the red mould," 
too, is beautifully fancied. Ben- Lomond's 
" Lofty pathless top," is a good expression ; 
and the surrounding view from it is truly 
great:- the 

" Silver mist 
Beneath the beaming sun," 

is well described ; and here he has contrived 
to enliven his poem with a little of that pas- 
sion which bids fair, I think, to usurp the 
modern muses altogether. I know not how 
far this episode is a beauty upon the whole ; 
but the swain's wish to carry '* some faint 
idea of the vision bright." to entertain her 
'' partial listening ear," is a pretty thought. 
But, in my opinion, the most beautiful pas- 
sages in the whole poem are the fowls crowd- 
ing, in wintry frosts, to Loch-Lomond's " hos- 
pitable flood ;" their wheeling round, their 
lighting, mixing, diving, &c. ; and the glo- 
rious description of the sportsman This 
last is equal to any thing in the Seasons. 
The idea of " the floating tribes distant 
seen, far glistering to the moon," provoking 
his eye as he is obliged to leave them, i? a 
noble ray of poetic genius. ** The howling 
winds," the " hideous roar" of *' the white 
cascades," are all in the same style. 

I forget that, while I am thus holding 
forth, with the heedless warmth of an enthu- 
siast, 1 am perhaps tiring you with nonsense. 
I must, however, mention, that the last verse 
of the sixteenth page, is one of the most ele- 
gant compliments I have ever seen. I must 
likewise notice that beautiful paragraph, be- 
ginning, " The gleaming lake," &c. I dare 
not go into the particular beauties of the two 



last paragraphs, but they are admirably fine, 
and truly Ossianic. 

I must beg your pardon for this lengthen- 
ed scrawl. I had no ideaof it when I began 
— I should like to know who the author is ; 
but, whoever he be, please present him with 
my grateful thanks for the entertainment he 
has afforded me.* 

A friend of mine desired me to commis- 
sion for him two books. Letters on the Reli- 
gion essential to Man, a book you sent me 
before; and, The World Unmasked, or the 
Philosopher the greatest Cheat. Send me 
them by the first opportunity. The Bible 
you sent me is truly elegant. I only wish it 
had been in two volumes. 



No. LVIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP, AT MOREHAM 
MAINS. 

Mauchline, I3th JVovemheTylVSS. 

Madam, 

I had the very great pleasure of dining 
at Dunlop yesterday. Men are said to flat- 
ter women because they are weak ; if it is so, 
poets must be weaker still ; for Misses R. 
and K., and Miss G. M'K , with their flat- 
tering attentions and artful eompliments, ab- 
solutely turned my head. I own they did 
not lard me over as many a poet does his pa- 
tron * * * * but they so 
intoxicated me with their sly insinuations and 
delicate inuendos of compliment, that if it had 
not been for a lucky recollection, how much 
additional W(ught and lustre your good opi- 
nion and friendship must give me in that cir- 
cle, I had certainly looked upon myself as a 
person of no small consequence. I dare not 
say one word how much I was charmed with 
the Major's friendly welcome, elegant man- 
ner, and acute remark, lest I should be thought 
to balance my orientalisms of applause oyer 
against the finest queyt in Ayrshire, which 
he made me a present of to help and adorn 
ray farm stock. As it was on Hallowday, I 
am determined annually, as that day returns, 
to decorate her horns with an ode of grati- 
tude to the family of Dunlop. 



* The poem entitled. An Address to Loch-Lo- 
mond, is said to be written by a gentleman, now 
one of the Masters of the High-School at Edin- 
burgh ; and the same who translated the beauti- 
ful story of the Paria, as published in the Bee of 
Dr. Anderson. E, 

r Heifer. 



114 



LETTERS. 



So soon as T know of yonr arrival at Dun- 
lop, I will lake the first conveniency to dedi- 
cate a da)', or perhaps two, to you and friend- 
ship, under the guarantee of the Major's hos- 
pitality. There will be soon threescore and 
ten miles of permanent distance between us; 
and now that your friendslnp a'.)d friendly 
correspondence is entwisted with the heart- 
strings of my enjoyment of life, I must in- 
dulge myself in a happy day of " The feast 
of reason and the flow of soul." 



No. LIX. 



TO 



Sir, 



NovemUi 8, 1788. 



Notwithstanding the opprobrious epi 
Ihets with which some of our philosophers 
and gloomy sectaries have branded our na- 
ture — the principle of universal selfishness. 
the proneness to all evil, they have given us ; 
still the detestation in which inhumanity to 
the distressed, or insoFfence to the fallen, are 
held by all mankind, shows that they are not 
natives of the human heart. Even the un- 
happy partner of our kind, who is undone. 
the bitter consequences of his follies or his 
crimes: — who but sympathizes with the mi- 
series of this ruined profligate brother.'' we 
forget the injuries, and feel for the man. 

I went, last Wednesday to my parish- 
church, most cordially to join in grateful ac- 
knowledgments to the Author of all Good, 
for the consequent blessings of the glorious 
revolution. To that auspicious event we owe 
no less than our liberties, civil and religious, 
to it we are likewise indebted for the pre- 
sent Royal Family, the ruling features of 
whose administration have ever been mild- 
ness to the subject, and tenderness of his 
rights. 

Bred and educated in revolution princi- 
ples, the principles or reason and common 
sense, it could not be any silly political pre- 
judice which made my heart revolt at the 
harsh, abusive manner, in which the reve- 
rend gentleman mentioned the House of 
Stewart, and which, I am afraid, wa^ too 
much the language of the day. We may re- 
joice sufficiently in our deliverance from past, 
evils, without cruelly raking up the ashes of 
those whose misfortune it was, perhaps as 
much as their crime, to be the authors of 
those evils ', and we may bless God for all 
his goodness to us as a nation, without, at 
the same time, cursing a tevj ruined, pow^er- 
less exiles, who only harboured ideas, and 
made attempts, that most of us would have 
d one had we been in their situation. 

'•' The bloody and tyrannical house of 



Stewart," mSy bo said with propriety and 
justice when compared with the present 
Royal Family, and the sentiments of our 
days ; but i.s there no allowance to be made 
for the manners of the time .'' Were the royal 
contemporaries of the Stewarts more atten- 
'ive to their subjects' rights ? Might not 
the epithets of " bloody and tyrannical," be 
with at least equal justicie applied to the 
House of Tudor, of York, or any other of 
their predecessors .'' 

The simple state of the case, Sir, seems to 
be this : — At that period the science of go- 
vernment, the knowledge of the true rela- 
tion between king and subject, was, like 
other sciences and other knowledge, just in 
its infancy, emerging from dark ages of ig- 
norance and barbarity. 

The Stewarts only contended for preroga- 
tives which they knew their predecessors en- 
joyed, and which they saw their contempo- 
raries enjoying ; but these prerogatives were 
inimical to the happiness of a nation and the 
rights of subjects. 

In this contest between prince and people, 
the consequence of that light of science which 
had lately dawned over Europe, the monarch 
of France, for example, was victorious over 
the struggling liberties of his people; with 
us, luckily, the monarch failed, and his un- 
warrantable pretensions fell a sacrifice to 
our rights and happiness. Whether it was 
owing to the wisdom of leading, individuals, 
or to the justling of parties, I cannot pretend 
todetermme; but likewise, happily for us, 
the kingly power was shifted into another 
branch of the family, who, as they owed the 
throne solely to the call of a free people, 
could claim nothing inconsistent with the cc- 
venanted terms which placed them there. 

The Stewarts have been condemned and 
laughed at for the folly and impracticability 
of their attempts in 1715 and 1740. That 
they failed, I bless God ; but cannot join in 
the ridicule against them. AVho does not 
know that the abilities or defects of leaders 
and commanders are often hidden, until put 
to the touchstone of exigency ; and that thero 
is a caprice of fortune, an omnipotence in 
particular accidents and conjunctures of cir- 
cumstances, which exalt us as heroes, or 
brand us as madmen, just as they are for 
or against us ^ 

Man, Mr. Publisher, is a strange, weak, 
inconsistent being : who would believe, Sir, 
that in this, our Augustan age ofUberality and 
refinement, while we seem so justly sensible 
and jealous of our rights and liberties, and 
animated with such indignation against the 
very memory of those who would have sub- 
verted them — that a certain people under . 
our national protection, should complain, 



LETTERS. 



115 



not against our monarch and a few favourite 
advisers, but against our whole legislative 
body, for similar oppression, and almost in 
the very same terms, as our forefathers did 
of the House of Stewart ! I will not, I can- 
not enter into the merits of tlie cause, but I 
dare say, the American Congress, in 1776, 
will be allowed to be as able and as enlight- 
ened as the English Convention was in 1688 ; 
and that their postei'ity will celebrate the cen- 
tenary of their deliverance from us, as duly 
and sincerely as we do ours from the oppres- 
sive measures of the wrong-headed House of 
Stewart. 

To conclude, Sir : let every man who has 
a tear for the many miseries incident to hu- 
manity, feel for a family illustrious as any in 
Europe, and unfortunate beyond historic pre- 
cedent ; and let every Briton, (and particu- 
larly every Scotsman,) who ever looked with 
reverential pity on the dotage of a parent, 
cast a veil over the fatal mistakes of the kings 
of his forefathers* 



No. LX. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

EUislandy nth Dec. 1788. 

My Dear, Honoured Friend, 

Yours, dated Edinburgh, which I have 
just read, makes me very unhappy. " Almost 
blind, and wholly deaf," are melancholy 
news of human nature ; but when told of a 
much-loved and honoured friend, they carry 
misery in the s.)und. Goodness on your part, 
and gratitude on mine, began a tie, which 
has gradually and strongly entwisted itself 
among the dearest chords of my bosom ; and 
I tremble at the omens of your late and pre- 
sent ailmg habits and shattered health. You 
miscalculate matters widely, when you for- 
bid my waiting on you, lest it should hurt 
my worldly concerns. My small scale of 
farming is exceedingly more simple and easy 
than what you have lately seen at Moreham 
Mains. But be that as it may, the heart of 
the man, and the fancy of the poet, are the 
two grand considerations for which I live : if 
miry ridges and dirty dunghills are to en- 
gross the best part of the functions of my 
soul immortal, I had better been a rook or a 
magpie at once, and then I should not have 
been plagued with any ideas superior to break- 
ing of clods, and picking up grubs : not to 
mention barn-door cocks or mallards, crea- 
tures with which I could almost exchange 
lives at any time — if you continue so deaf, 1 



* This letter was sent to the publisher of some 
newspaper, probably the publisher of the Edin- 
burgh Evening Courant. 

38 



am afraid a visit will be no great pleasure to 
either of us ; but if I hear you are got so well 
again as to be able to relish conversation, 
look you to it, Madam, for I will make my 
threatenings good. I am to be at the new- 
year-day fair of Ayr, and by all that is sacred 
;n the word Friend ! I will come and see you. 



Your meeting, which you so well describe, 
with your old school-feflovv and friend, was 
truly interesting. Out upon the ways of the 
world! — They spoil these " social offsprings 
of the heart." Two veteians of the " men of 
the world" would have met with little more 
heart-workings than two old hacks worn out 
on the road. Apropos, is not the Scotch 
phrase, " Auld lang syne," exceedingly ex- 
pressive ? There is an old song and tune 
which has often thrilled through my soul. 
You know I am an enthusiast in old Scotch 
songs: I shall give you the verses on the 
other sheet, as I suppose Mr. Kerr will save 
you the postage.* 

Light be the turf on the breast of the Hea- 
ven-inspired poet who composed this glorious 
fragment ! There is more of the fire of na- 
tive genius in it than half a dozen of modern 
English Bacchanalians. Now I am on my 
hobby-horse, I cannot help inserting two 
other stanza's which please me mightily. f 



No. LXI. 

TO MISS DAVIES. 

A young lady who had heard he had been mak- 
ing a Ballad on her, enclosing the Ballad. 

De,c ember, 1788. 
Madam, 

I understand my very worthy neighbour, 
Mr. Riddle, has informed you that i have 
made you the subject of some verses. There 
is something so provoking in the idea of 
being the burden of a ballad, that I do not 
think Job or Moses, though such patterns of 
patience and meekness, could have resisted 
the curiosity to know what that ballad was ; 
so my worthy friend has done me a mischief, 
which, I dare say he never intended; and 
reduced me to the unfortunate alternative of 
leaving your curiosity ungraiified, or else 
disgusting you with foolish verses, the unfi- 
nished production of a random moment, and 
never meant to have met your ear. I have 
heard or read somewhere of a gentleman, 
who had somegenius, much eccentricity, and 

* Here follows the song of Auld lang syne, as 
printed in the poems. E. 

f Here followed the song, Mi/ Bonnie Mar,\ 
Poems p. 129, 



116 



LETTERS. 



very considerable dexterity with his pencil. 
In the accidental group of life into which one 
is thrown, wherever this gentleman met with 
a character in a more than ordinary degree 
congenial to his heart, he used to steal a 
sketch of the face, merely, as he said, as a 
vota bene to point out the agreeable recol- 
lection to his memory. What this gentle- 
man's pencil was to him, is my muse to me : 
and ihc verses I do myself the honour to send 
you, are a memento exactly of the same kind 
that he indulged in. 

U may be more owing to the fastidious- 
ness of" my caprice, than the delicacy of my 
laste,but I am so often tired, disgusted, and 
hurt, with the insipidity, affectation, and 
pride of mankind, that when I meet with a 
jjcrson " after my own heart," I positively 
I'eel what an orthodox protestant would call 
a species of idolatry, which acts on my fancy 
like inspiration ; and I can no more desist 
rhyming on the impulse, than an ceolian harp 
can refuse its tones to the streaming- air. A 
distich or two would be the consequence, 
though the object which hit my fancy were 
gray-bearded age: but where my theme is 
youth and beauty, a young lady whose per- 
sonal charms, wit, and sentiment, are equal- 
ly striking and unaffected, by heavens ! 
though I had lived threescore years a mar- 
ried man, and threescore years before I was 
a married man, my imagination would hal- 
low the very idea ; and I am truly sorry that 
the enclosed stanzas have done such poor 
justice to such a subject. 



No. LXII. 
FROM MR. GILBERT BURNS. 
Mossgiel, ist January, 1789. 

Dear Brother, 

I have just finished my new-year's-day 
breakfast in the usual form, which naturally 
makes me call to mind the days of former 
years, and the society in which we used to 
begin them ; and when I look at our family 
vicissitudes, " thro' the dark postern of time 
long elapsed,'' I cannot help remarking to 
you, my dear brother, how good the God 
of Seasons is to us, and that, however some 
clouds may seem to lower over the portion 
of time before us, we have great reason to 
hope that all will turn out well. 

Your mother and sisters, with Robert the 
second, join me in the compliments of the 
season to you and Mrs. Burns, and beg you 
will remember us in the same manner to 
William, the first time you see him. 

I am, dear brother, 3'ours, 

GILBERT BURNS. 



No. LXin. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, Ncio-Year-Day Morning. 
This, dear Madam, is a morning of 
wishes ; and would to God that I came un- 
der the apqsile James's description I — the 
prayer of the righteous man availetk much. 
In that case, Madam, you should welcome in 
a year full of blessings : every thing that ob- 
structs or disturbs tranquillity and self-enjoy- 
ment, should be removed, and every pleasure 
that frail humanity can taste should be yours. 
I own myself so little a presbyterian, that I 
approve of set times and seasons of more than 
ordinary acts of devotion, for breaking in on 
that habituated routine of life and thought 
which is so apt to reduce our existence to a 
kind of instinct, or even sometimes, and with 
some minds, to a state very little superior to 
mere machinery. 

This day, the first Sunday of May, a breezy 
blue-skyed noon, some time about the begin- 
ning, and a hoary morning and calm sunny 
day about the end of autumn; — these, time 
out of mind, have been with me a kind of 
holiday. 



I believe I owe this to that glorious paper 
in the Spectator, " The Vision of Mirza;" 
a piece that struck my young fancy before I 
was capable of fixing an idea to a word of 
three syllables. " On the fifth day of the 
moon, which, according to the custom of my 
forefathers, I always keep holy, after having 
washed myself, and offered up my morning 
devotions, I ascended the high hill of Bag- 
dat, in order to pass the rest of the day in 
meditation and prayer." 

We know nothing, or next to nothing, of 
the substance or structure of our souls, so 
cannot account for those seeming caprices 
in them, that one should be particularly 
pleased with this thing, or struck with that, 
which, on minds of a different cast, makes 
no extraordinary impression. I have some 
favourite flowers in spring, among which are 
the mountain-daisy, the hare-bell, the fox- 
glove, the wild brier rose, the budding birch, 
and the hoary hawthorn, that I view and 
hang over with particular delight. I never 
heard the loud solitary whistle of the curlew 
in a summer noon, or the wild mixing ca- 
dence of a troop of gray plover in an autum- 
nal morning, without feeling an elevation of 
soul like the enthusiasm of devotion or poetry. 
Tell me, my dear friend, to what can this be 
owing. Are we a piece of machinery, which, 
like the eeolian harp, passive, takes the im- 
pression of the passing accident ' Or do 
these workings argue something within us 
above the trodden clod P I own myself par- 



LETTERS. 



IIT 



lial to such proofs of those awful, and im- 
portant realities — a God tliat made all things 
— man's immaterial and immortal nature — 
and a world of weal or wo beyond death and 
the grave. 



No. LXIV. 
TO DR. MOORE. 

Ellisland, near Dumfries^ Ath Jan. 1789. 

Sir, 

As often as I think of writing to you, 
which has been three or four times every 
week these six nionths; it gives me some- 
thing so like the look of an ordinary sized 
statue offering at a conversation with the 
Rhodian colossus, that my mind misgives 
me, and the affair always miscarries some- 
where between purpose and resolve. I have, 
at last, got some business with you, and bu- 
siness letters are written by the style-book. 
I say my business is with you, Sir, for you 
never had any with me, except the business 
that benevolence has in the mansion of po- 
verty. 

The character and employment of a poet 
were formerly my pleasure, but are now my 
pride I know that a very great deal of my 
late eclat was owing to the singularity of my 
situation, and the honest prejudice of Scots- 
men ; but still, as I said in the preface to 
my first edition, I do look upon myself as 
having some pretensions from Nature to the 
poetic character. I have not a doubt but the 
knack, the aptitude to learn the Muses' trade, 
is a gift bestowed by Him, " who forms the 
secret bias of the soul ;" — but I as firmly be- 
lieve, that exceUence in the profession is the 
fruit of industry, labour, attention, and pains. 
At least I am resolved to try my doctrine by 
the test of experience. Another appearance 
from the press 1 put off to a very distant day, 
a day that may never arrive — but poesy I am 
determined to prosecute with all my vigour. 
Nature has given very fiew, if any, of the 
profession, the talents of shining in every 
species of composition. I shall try (for until 
trial it isLmpossible to kiKnv) whether she 
has qualified me to shine in any one. The 
worst of it is, by the time ore has finished a 
piece, it has been so often viewed and re- 
viewed before the mental eye, that one loses, 
in a good measure, the powers of critical dis- 
crimination- Here the bostcriter'on Iknow 
is a friend — not only of abilities to judge, 
but with good nature enough, like a prudent 
teacher with a young learner, to praise, per- 
haps a little more than IS exactly just, lest 
the thin-skinned animal fall into that most 
tloplorableof all noetic diseases — heart-break- 



ing despondency of himself. Dare I, Sir, al- 
ready immensely indebted to your goodness, 
ask the additioiial obligation of your beino- 
that friend to me ? I enclose you an essay 
of mine in a walk of poesy to me entirely 
new ; I mean the epistle ad<lreKsed to R. (i. 
Esq. or Robert Graham, of Fintry, Esq. a 
gentleman of uncommon worth, to whom I 
lie under very great obligations. The story 
of the poem, like most of my poems, is con- 
nected with my own story; and to give you 
the one I must give you something of the 
other. I cannot boast of — 



J believe L shall, in whole, 100/. copyright 
included, clear about 400/. some little odds ; 
and even part of this depends upon what the 
gentleman has yet to settle with mo. I give 
you this information, because you did me the 
honour to interest yourself much in my wel- 
fare. 



To give the rest of my story in brief, I 
have married " my Jean," and taken a farm : 
with the first step, I have every day more 
and more reason to be satisfied ; with the 
last, it is rather the reverse. I have a young- 
er brother who supports my aged mother ; 
another still younger brother, and three sis- 
ters, in a farm. On my last return from 
Edinburgh, it cost me about 180/. to save 
them from ruin. Not that I have lost so 
much — I only interposeil between my bro- 
ther and his impending fate by the loan of so 
much. I give myself no airs on this, for it 
was mere selfishness on my part : I was con- 
scious that the wrong scale of the balance 
was pretty heavily charged ; and I thought 
that throwing a little filial piety, and frater- 
nal affection, into the scale in my favour, 
might help to smooth matters at the graiid 
reckoning. There is still one thing would 
make my circumstances quite easy ; I have 
an excise-officer's commission, and I live in 
the midst of a country division. My request 
to Mr. Graham, who is one of the commis- 
sioner.'^ of excise, was, if in his power, to pro- 
cure me that division. If 1 were very san- 
guine, I might hope that some of my great 
patrons might procure me a treasury war- 
rant for supervisor, surveyor-general, &c. — 
Thus secure of a livelihood, " to the sweet 
poetry, delightful maid !" I would consecrate 
my future days. 



No. XLV. 

TO PROFESSOR D. STEWART. 
EUisland, near Dnmfries, 20th Jan. 1789. 

SiK, 

The enclosed sealed packet I sent to 
Edinburgh a few days after 1 had the happi- 



118 



LETTERS. 



nesa of meeting you in Ayrshire, but you 
were gone for the Continent. I have added 
a few more of my productions, those for 
which I am indebted to the Nithsdale Muses. 
The piece inscribed to R. G. Esq. is a copy 
of verses I sent Mr. Graham, of Fintry, ac- 
companying a request for his assistance in a 
matter, to me, of very great moment. To 
that gentleman I am already doubly indebted, 
for deeds of kindness of serious import to my 
dearest interests, done in a manner grateful 
to the delicate feelings of sensibility. This 
poem is a species of composition new to me ; 
but I do not intend it shall be my last essay 
of the kind, as you will see by the " Poet's 
Progress." These fragments, if my design 
succeeds, are but a small part of the intended 
whole. I propose it shall be the work of my 
utmost exertions, ripened by years : of course 
I do not wish it much known. The frag- 
ment, beginning " A little, upright, pert, 
tart," &c. I have not shown to man living, 
till now I send it you. It forms the postula, 
the axioms, the definition of a character, 
which, if it appear at all, shall be placed in a 
variety of lights. This particular part 1 send 
you merely as a sample of my hand at por- 
trait sketching; but lest idle conjecture 
should pretend to point out the original, 
please let it be for your single, sole inspec- 
tion. 

Need I make any apology for this trouble 
to a gentleman who has treated me with such 
marked benevolence and peculiar kindness ; 
who has entered into my interests with so 
much zeal, and on whose critical decisions I 
can so fully depend .'' A poet as I am by 
trade, these decisions to me are of the last 
consequence. My late transient acquaint- 
ance among some of the mere rank and file 
of greatness, I resign with ease ; but to the 
distinguished champions of genius and learn- 
ing, I shall be ever ambitious of being known. 
The native genius and accurate discernment 
in Mr. Stewart's critical strictures ; the just- 
ness (iron justice, for he has no bowels of 
compassion for a poor poetic sinner) of Dr. 
Gregory's remarks, and the delicacy of Pro- 
fessor Dalzel's taste, I shall ever revere. I 
shall be in Edinburgh some time next month. 
I have the honour to be. Sir, 
Your highly obliged. 

And very humble servant, 
ROBERT BURNS. 



No. LXVI. 
TO BISHOP GEDDES. 

Ellisland, near Dumfries, "id Feb. 1789. 

Venerable Father, 
As I am conscioua, that wherever I am, 
▼otido me the honour to interest yourself in 



my welfare, it gives me pleasure to inform 
you that I am here at last, stationary in the 
serious business of life, and have now not 
only the retired leisure, but the hearty incli- 
nation, to attend to those great and impor- 
tant questions — what I am.-" where I am? 
and for what I am destined ? 

In that first concern, the conduct of the 
man, there was ever but one side on which I 
was habitually blameable, and there I have 
secured myself in the way pointed out by 
Nature and Nature's God. I was sensible 
that, to so helpless a creature as a poor poet, 
a wife and family were encumbrances, which 
a species of prudence would bid him shun ; 
but when the alternative was, being at eter- 
nal warfare with myself, on account of ha- 
bitual follies, to give them no worse name, 
which no general example, no licentious wit, 
no sophistical infidelity, would to me, ever 
justify, I must have been a fool to have hesi- 
tated, and a madman to have made another 
choice. 



In the affair of a livelihood, I think myself 
tolerably secure : I have good hopes of my 
farm ; but should they fail, I have an excise 
commission, which on my simple petition, 
will at any time procure me bread. There 
is a certain stigma afiixed to the character of 
an excise officer, but I do not intend to bor- 
row honour from any profession ; and though 
the salary be comparatively small, it is great 
to any thing that the first twenty-five years 
of my life taught me to expect. 



Thus, with a rational aim aod method in 
life, you may easily guess, ray reverend and 
much-honoured friend, that my character- 
istical trade is not forgotten. I am, if possible, 
more than ever an enthusiast to the Muses. 
I am determined to study man, and nature, 
and in that view incessantly ; and to try if 
the ripening and corrections of years can 
enable me to produce something worth pre- 
serving. 

You will see in your book, which I beg 
your pardon for detaining so long, that I have 
been tuning my lyre on the banks of Nith. 
Some large poetic plans that are floating in 
my imagination, or partly put in execution, 
I shall impart to you when I have the pleasure 
of meeting with you : which, if you are then 
in Edinburgh, I shall have about the begin- 
ning of March. 

That acquaintance, worthy Sir, with which 
you were pleased to honour me, you must 
still allow me to challenge ; for with whatever 
unconcern I give up my transient connexion 



LETTERS. 



119 



with the merely great, I cannot lose the pa- 
tronizing notice of the learned and good, 
without the bitterest regret. 



•No. LXVII. 

FROM THE REV. P. CARFRAE. 

Qd Jan. 1789. 
Sir, 

If you have lately seen Mrs. Dunlop, of 
Dunlop, you have certainly heard of the au- 
thor of the verses which accompany this let- 
ter. He was a man highly respectable for 
every accomplishment and virtue which 
adorns the character of a man or a christian. 
To a great degree of literature, of taste, and 
poetic genius, was added, an invincible mo- 
desty of temper, which prevented in a great 
degree his figuring in life, and confined the 
perfect knowledge of his character and ta- 
lents to the small circle of his chosen friends. 
He was untimely taken from us, a few weeks 
ago, by an inflammatory fever, in the prime 
of life — beloved by all who enjoyed his ac- 
quaintance, and lamented by all who have 
any regard for virtue and genius There is 
a wo pronounced in Scripture against the 
person whom all men speak well of; if ever 
that wo fell upon the head of mortal man, it 
fell upon him. He has left behind him a con- 
siderable number of compositions, chiefly 
poetical, sufiicient, I imagine, to make a large 
octavo volume. In particular, two complete 
and regular tragedies, a farce of three acts, 
and some smaller poems on different subjects. 
It falls to my share, who have lived in the 
most intimate and uninterrupted friendship 
with him from my youth upwards, to trans- 
mit to you the verses he wrote on the publi- 
cation of your incomparable poems. It is 
probable they were his last, as they were 
found in his scrutoire, folded up with the 
form of a letter addressed to you, and, I ima- 
gine, were only prevented ti-om being sent 
by himself, by that melancholy dispensation 
vvhich we still bemoan. The verses them- 
selves I will not pretend to criticise when 
writing to a gentleman whom I consider as 
entirely qualified to judge of their merit. 
They are the only verses he seems to have 
attempted in the Scottish style ; and I hesi- 
tate not to say, in general, that they will bring 
no dishonour on the Scottish muse ; — and 
allow me to add, that, if it is your opinion 
they are not unworthy of the author, and will 
be no discredit to you, it is the inclination of 
Mr. Mylne's friends that they should be im- 
mediately published in some periodical work, 
to give the world a specimen of what may be 
expected from his performances in the poetic 
line, which, perhaps, will be afterwards pub- 
lished for the advantage of his family. 



I must beg the favour of a letter from you, 
acknovvledging the receipt of this : and to 
be allowed to subscribe myself, with great 
regard, 

Sir, your most obedient servant, 

P. CARFRAE. 



No. LXVIII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 4th Marchf 1789. 

Here am I, my honoured friend, returned 
safe from the capital. To a man who has a 
home, however humble or remote — if that 
home is like mine, the scene of domestic 
comfort — the bustle of Edinburgh will soon 
be a business of sickening disgust. 

" Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate you." 

When I must skulk into a corner, lest the 
rattling equipage of some gaping blockhead 
should mangle me in the mire, I am tempted 
to exclaim — " What merits has he had, or 
what demerit have I had, in some state of pre- 
existence, that he is ushered into this state of 
being with the sceptre of rule, and the key of 
riches in his puny fist, and I am kicked into 
the world, the sport of folly, or the victim of 
pride .'"' I have read somewhere of a monarch 
(in Spain I think it was,) who was so out of 
humour with the Ptolemean system of astro- 
nomy, that he said, had he been of the Crea- 
tor's council, he could have saved him a great 
deal of labour and absurdity. I will not defend 
this blasphemous speech ; but often, as I have 
glided with humble stealth through the pomp 
of Prince's street, it has suggested itself to 
me, as an improvement on the present human 
figure, that a man, in proportion to his own 
conceit of his consequence in the world, could 
have pushed out the longitude of his common 
size, as a snail pushes out his horns, or as we 
draw out a perspective. This trifling altera- 
tion, not to mention the prodigious saving it 
would be in the tear and wear of the neck 
and limb-sinews of many of his majesty's 
liege subjects, in the way of tossing the head 
and tiptoe-strutting, would evidently turn out 
a vast advantage, in enabling us at once to 
adjust the ceremonials in making a bow, or 
making way to a great man, and that too with- 
in a second of the precise spherical angle of 
reverence, or an inch of the particular point 
of respectful distance, which the important 
creature itself requires ; as a measuring 
glance at its towering altitude would deter- 
mine the affair like instinct. 

You are right, Madam, in your idea of poor 
Mvlne's poem, which he has addressed to me 



120 



LETTERS. 



The piece has a good deal of merit, but it 
has one great fauli — it is, by far, too long. 
Besides, my success has encouraged such a 
shoal of ill-spawned monsters to crawl into 
j>ublic notice, under tiie title of Scottisii 
Poets, that the very term Scottish Poetry 
borders on the burlesque. When I write to 
Mr. Carfrae, I shall advise him rather to try 
one of his deceased friend's English pieces. 
I am prodigiously hurried with my own mat- 
ters, else I would have requested a perusal of 
all Mylne's poetic performances ; and would 
have offered his friends my assistance ineither 
selecting or -correcting what would be proper 
for the press. What it is that occupies me 
so much, and perhaps a little oppresses my 
present spirits, shall fil! up a paragraph in 
some future letter. In the mean time, allow 
•me to close this epistle with a few lines done 
by a friend of mine * * * -. I give you 
them, that, as you have seen the original, you 
may gusss whether one or two alterations I 
liave ventured to make in them, be any real 
improvement. 

T/ike the fair plant ihat from our touch witluhaws, 
Shrink, mildly fearful, even from applause. 
lie all a mother's fondest hope can dream. 
And all you are, my charming * * * *, seem, 
Straight as ihe fox-glove, ere her bells disclose, 
Mild as the maiden-blushing hawthorn blows, 
Fair as the fairest of each lovely kind, 
Your form shall be the image of your mind ; 
Your manners shall so true your soul express, 
That all shall long to know the worth they guess : 
Congenial hearts shall greet with kindred love, 
And even sick'ning envy must approve.* 



No. LXIX. 

TO THE REV. P. CARFRAE. 

1789. 
Reverknd Sik, 

I DO not recollect that I have ever felt 
a severer pang of shame, than on looking at 
the date of your obliging letter which accom- 
panied Mr. Mylne's poem. 



1 am much to blame : the honour Mr. Mylne 
iias done me, greatly enhanced in its value 
by the endearing though melancholy circum- 
stance of its being the last production of his 
muse, deserved a better return. 

I have, as you hint, thought of sending a 
copy of the poem to some periodical publica- 
tion ; but, on second thoughts, I am afraid 
that, in the present case, it would be an im- 
proper step. My success, perhaps as much 



accidental as merited, has brought an inun- 
dation of nonsense under the name of Scot- 
tish poetry. Subscription bills for Scottish 
poems have so dunned, and daily do dun, the 
public, that the very name is in danger of 
contempt For these reasons, if publishing 
any of Mr. Mylne's poems in a magazine, &c. 
be at all prudent, in my opinion, it certainly 
should not be a Scottish poem. The profits 
of the labours of a man of genius are, I hope, 
as honourable as any profits whatever; and 
Mr. Mylne's relations are most justly enti- 
tled to that honest harvest which fate has 
denied himself to reap. But let the friends 
of Mr. Mylne's fame (among whem I claim 
the honour of ranking myself) always keep 
in eye his respectability as a man and as a 
poet, and take no measure that, before the 
world knows any thing about him, would 
risk his name and character being classed 
with the fools of the times. 

I have, Sir, some experience of publishing, 
and the way in which I would proceed with 
Mr Mylne's poems is this : I would publish 
in two or three English and Scottish public 
papers, any one of his English poems which 
should, by private judges, be thought the 
most excellent ; and mention it, at the same 
time, as one of the productions of a Lothian 
farmer, of respectable character, lately de- 
ceased, whose poems his friends had it in idea 
to publish soon, by subscription, for the sake 
of his numerous family : - not in pity to that 
family, but in justice to what his friends think 
the poetic merits of the deceased ; and to se- 
cure, in the most effectual manner, to those 
tender connexions, whose right it is, the pe- 
cuniary reward of those merits.. 



* These beautiful lines, we have reason to be- 
lieve, are the production of the lady to whom 
this letter is addressed. E. 



No. LXX. 
TO DR. MOORE. 

Ellisland, 23d March, 1789. 

Sir, 

The gentleman who will deliver you 
this is a Mr. Neilson, a worthy clergyman in 
my neighbourhood, and a very particular ac- 
quaintance of mine. As I have troubled 
him with this packet, I niust turn him over 
to your goodness, to recompense him for it 
in a way in which he much needs your as- 
sistance, and where you can effectually serve 
him: — Mr. Nielsen is on bis way for France, 
to wait on his Grace of Queensbury. on some 
little business of a good der;l of importance 
to him, and ha wishes for your instructions 
respecting the most eligible mode of travel- 
ling, ifcc. f<tr him, when he has crossed the 
channel. I should not have dared to take 
this liberty with you, but that I am told, by 
those who have the lionour of your personal 
acquaintance, that tobeapoor honest Scotch- 



LETTERS. 



121 



man, is a letter of recominendation to you, 
and lliat to have it in your power to serve 
such a character gives you much pleasure. 



The enclosed ode is a compliment to the me- 
mory of the late Mrs. , of . You, 

probably, knew her personally, an honour of 
which I cannot boast ; but I spent my early 
years in her neighbourhood, and among her 
servants and tenants, 1 know that she was 
detested with the most heartfelt cordiality. 
However, in the particular part of her con- 
duct which roused my poetic wrath, she was 
much less blameable. In January last, on 
my road to Ayrshire, I had put up at Bailie 
Whigham's, in Sanquhar, the only tolerable 
inn in the place. The frost was keen, and 
the grim evening and howling wind were 
ushering in a night of snow and drift. My 
horse and I were both much fatigued with 
the labours of the day ; and just as my friend 
the Bailie and I were bidding defiance to the 
storm, over a smoking bowl, in wheels the 
funeral pageantry of the late great Mrs. 

, and poor I am forced to brave all the 

horrors of the tempestuous night, and jade 
my horse, my young favourite horse, whom 
I had just christened Pegasus, twelve miles 
farther on, through the wildest moors and 
hills of Ayrshire, to New Cumnock, the next 
inn. The powers of poesy and prose sink 
under me, when I would describe what 1 
felt. Suffice it to say, that when a good fire 
at New Cumnock, had so far recovered my 
frozen sinews, I sat down and wrote the en- 
closed ode.* 

I was at Edinburgh lately, and settled 
finally with Mr. Creech; and I must own, 
that, at last, he has been amicable and fair 
with me. 



No. LXXI. 
TO MR. HILL. 

EUisland, 2d April, 1789. 

I will make no excuses, my dear Biblio- 
polus, (God forgive me for murdering lan- 
guage,) that I have sat down to write you on 
this vile paper. 



It is economy, Sir; it is that cardinal virtue, 
prudence ; so I beg you will sit down, and 
either compose or borrow a panegyric. If 
you are going to borrow, apply to 



* The Ode enclosed is that printed in Poems, 
n 53. E. r . ■> 



to compose, or rather compound something 
very clover on my remarkable frugality; 
that I write to one of my most esteemed 
friends on this wretched paper, which was 
originally intended for the venal fist of some 
drunken exciseman, to take dirty notes in a 
miserable vault of an ale-cellar. 

O Frugality ! thou mother often thousand 
blessings — thou cook of fat beef and dainty 
greens — thou manufacturer of warm Shet- 
land hose, and con)fortable surtouts ! — thou 
old housewife, darning thy decayed stock- 
ings with thy ancient spectacles on thy aged 
nose ! — lead me, hand me, in thy clutching, 
palsied fist, up those heights, and through 
those thickets, hitherto inaccessible, and im- 
pervious to my anxious, weary feet ; — not 
those Parnassian crags, bleak and barren, 
where the hungry worshippers of fame are 
breathless, clambering, hanging between 
heaven and hell; but those glittering cliffs 
of Potosi, where the all-sufficient, all-power- 
ful deity. Wealth, holds his immediate court 
of joys and pleasures; where the sunny ex- 
posure of plenty, and the hot walls of profu- 
sion, produce those blissful fruits of luxury, 
exotics in this world, and natives of Paradise ! 
— Thou withered sybil, my sage conductress, 
usher me into the refulgent, adored presence ! 
— The power, splendid and potent as he now 
is, was once the puling nursling of thy faith- 
ful care and tender arriis ! Call me thy son, 
thy cousin, thy kinsman, or favourite, and 
abjure the god, by the scenes of his infant 
years, no longer to repulse me as a stranger, 
or an alien, but to favour me with his pecu- 
liar countenance and protection ! He daily 
bestows his greatest kindnesses on the un- 
deserving and the worthless — assure him 
that I bring ample documents of meritorious 
demerits! Pledge yourself for me, that for 
the glorious cause of Lucre I will do any 
thing — be any thing — but the horse-leech of 
private oppression, or the vulture of public 
robbery ! 



But to descend from heroics. 



I want a Shakspeare ; I want likewise an 
English Dictionary — Johnson's I suppose is 
best. In these and all my prose commissions, 
the cheapest is always the best for me. There 
is a small debt of honour that I owe Mr. Ro- 
bert Cleghorn, in Saughton Mills, my wor- 
thy friend, and your well-wisher. Please 
give him, and urge him to take it, the first 
time you see him, ten shillings worth of 
any thing you have to sell, and place it to 
my account. 

The library scheme that I mentioned to you 
is already begun, under the direction of Cap- 
tain Riddel. There is another in emulation 



122 



LETTliKS. 



of it o-oino- on at Closeburn, unrier the aus- 
pices°of ivfr. Monteith, of Closeburn, which 
will be on a greater scale than ours. Capt. 
R. o-ave his infant society a gr*^atmany of his 
okfbooks, else I had written you on that sub- 
ject; but one of these days, I shall trouble 
you with a communication for " The Monk 
land Kriendly Society ;" a copy of The Spec- 
tator, Mirror, and Lounger ; Man of Fetl- 
ing, Man of the World, Guthrie's Geographi- 
cal Grammar, with some religious pieces, 
will likewise be our first order. 

When I grow richer, I will write to you on 
gilt post, to make amends for this sheet. At 
present every guinea has a five guinea er- 
rand with, 

My dear Sir, 
Your faithful, poor, but honest friend, 

R. B. 



No. LXXII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

EUisland. \th April, 1789, 

I no sooner hit on any poetic plan or 
fancy, but 1 wish to send it to you : and if 
knowing and reading these give half the 
pleasure to you, that communicating them 
to you gives to me, I am satisfied. 



I have a poetic whim in my head, which I 
at present dedicate, or rather inscribe, to the 
Right Hon. C. J. Fox : but how long that 
fancy may hold, I cannot say. A few of the 
first lines I have just rough-sketched, as fol- 
lows.* 



On the 20th current I hope to have the ho- 
nour of assuring you, in person, how sin- 
cerely I am — 



No. LXXIII. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

EUisland, 4th May, 1789. 

Mv Dear Sir, 

Your duty-free favour of the 26th April 
I received two daya ago ; I will not say I 
perused it with pleasure ; that is the cold 
compliment of ceremony ; I perused it, Sir, 

* Here was copied the Fragment inscribed to 
C .T. Fox. See Poems, p. 77. 



with delicious satisfaction — in short, it is 
such a letter, that not you nor your friend, 
but the legislature, by express proviso in 
their postage-laws, should frank. A letter 
informed with the s ul o^ friendship is such 
an honour to human nature, that they should 
order it free ingress and egress to and from 
their bags and mails, as an encouragement 
and mark of distinction to supereminent 
virtue. 

I have just put the last hand to a little 
poem which 1 think will be something to 
your taste. One morning lately as I was out 
early in the fields sowing some grass seeds, I 
heard the burst of a shot from a neighbour- 
ing plantation, and presently a poor little 
wounded hare came crippling by me. You 
will guess my indignation at the inhuman 
fellow who could shoot a hare at this season, 
when they all of them have young ones. In- 
deed, there is something in that business of 
destroying, for our sport, individuals in the 
animal creation that do not injure us mate- 
rially, which I could never reconcile to my 
ideas of virtue. 



On seeing a Fellow wound a Hare with a 
Shot, April, 1789. 

Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye : 
May never pity sooth thee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! 

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, 
The bitter little that of life remains : 
No more the thickening brakes or verdant 
plains, 

To thee a home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled innocent, some wonted form, 
That wonted form, alas! thy dying bed, 
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, 

The cold earth with thy blood-stained bosom 
warm. 

Perhaps a mother's anguish adds its wo ; 

The playful pair crowd fondly by thy side ; 

Ah ! helpless nurslings, who will now provide 
That life a mother only can bestow. 

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn. 

And curse the ruthless wretch, and mourn thy 
hapless fate. 

Let me know how you like my poem ; I 
am doubtful whether it would not be an im- 
provement to keep out the last stanza but 
one altogether. 

C is the glorious production of the 

Author of man. You, he, and the noble Co- 
lonel of thre C-^^ F are to mo 



LETTERS. 



123 



" Dear as the ruddy drops which warm my 
breast." 

I have a good mind to make verses on you 
all, to the tune of " Three guid fellows ayont 
the glen.^' 



No. LXXIV. 

The poem in the preceding letter had also been 
sent by our Bard to Dr Gregory for his cri- 
ticisms. The following is that gentleman's 
reply. 

FROM DR. GREGORY. 



Edinburgh, 2d June, ]789. 



Dear Sir, 



I take the first leisure hour T could com- 
mand, to thank you for your letter, and the 
copy of verses enclosed in it. As there is real 
poetic merit, I mean both fancy and tender- 
ness, and some happy expressions in them, I 
think they well deserve that yon should re- 
vise them carefully and polish them to the 
utmost. This I am sure you can do if you 
please, for you have great command both of 
expressian and of rhymes ; and you may 
judge from the two last pieces of Mrs. Hun- 
ter's poetry, that I gave you, how much cor- 
rectness and high polish enhance the value 
of such compositions, ^s you desire if, I 
shall, with great freedom, give you my most- 
rigorous criticisms on your verses. I wish 
you would give me another edition of them, 
much amended, and I will send it to Mrs. 
Hunter, who I am sure will have much plea- 
sure in teading it. Pray give me likewise 
for myself, and her too, a copj' (a;s much 
amended as you please) of the fVaier Foiol 
on Loch Turit, 

The Wounded Hare is a pretty good sub- 
ject; but the measure or stanza you have 
chosen for it, is not a good one ; it dot^s not 
flow well; and the rhyme o*' the fourth line 
is almost lost by its diistauce from the first, 
and the two interposed, close rliymes. If I 
were you, 1 o'<»uld put it into a different 
stanza yet- ^ 

Stanza t. The execrations in the first two 
lines are too strong or coarse ; but tliey may 
pass. " Murder-aiming" is a bad compound 
epithet, and not very intelligible. " Blood- 
stained," in stanza iii. line 4. has the same 
fault : Bleeding bosom is infinitely better. 
You have accustomed yourself to such epi- 
thets, and have no notion how stifFand quaint 
they appear to others, and how incongruous 
with poetic fancy and tender sentiments. — 
Suppose Pope had written, " Why that blood 
stained bosom gored," how would you have 
liked it.' Form is neither a poetic nor a 

39 



dignified, nor a plain common word ; it is a 
mere sportsman's word; unsuitable to pa- 
thetic or serious poetry. 

" Mangled" is a coarse word. " Inno- 
cent," in this sense, is a nursery word, but 
both may pass. 

Stanza 4. " Who will now provide that 
life a mother only can bestow .?" will not do 
at all ; it is not grammar — it is not intelligi- 
ble. Do you mean, " provide for that life 
which the mother had bestowed and used to 
provide for .?" 

Thex-e was a ridiculous slip of the pen, 
" Feeling" (I suppose) for " Fellow," in 
the title of your copy of verses ; but even 
fellow would be wrong ; it is but a colloquial 
and vulgar word, unsuitable to your senti- 
ments. " Shot" is improper too. — On see- 
ing a person (or a sportsman) wound a hare ; 
it is needless to add with what weapon; but 
if you think otherwise, you should say with a 
fowling piece. 

Let ine see you when you come to town, 
and I will show you some more of Mrs. Hun- 
ter's poems.* 



No. LXXV. 
TO MR. M'AULEY, OF DUMBARTON. 



DtAR Sir, 



Ath June, 1789. 



Though I am not without my fears re- 
specting my tate, at that grand, universal in- 
que.st ol right and wrong, commonly called 
The Last Day, yet I trust there is one sin, 
which that arch vagabond, Satan, who I un- 
derstand is to be king's evidence, cannot 
throw in my tseth, 1 inean ingratitude. 
There is a certain pretty large quantum of 
kindness, for ivhich I remain, and from ina- 
bility, I fear must still remain, your debt- 
or : but, though unable to repay the debt, I 
assure ynU; Sir, I shall ever warmly remem- 
ber the obligation. It gives me the sincerest 
pleasure to hear, by my old acquaintance, 

* It must be admitted that this criticism is not 
more distinguished by its good sense, than by its 
freedom from ceremony. It is impossible not to 
smile at the manner in whicii the poet may be 
supposed to have received it. In fact, it appears, 
as the sailors say, to have thrown him quite aback. 
In a letter which he wrote soon after, he says, 

" Dr. .G is a good man, but he crucifies me." 

— And again, "I believe in the iron justice of 

Dr. G ; but, like the devils, I believe and 

tremble." However, he profited by these criti- 
cisms, as the reader will find by comparing the 
first edition of this piece with that published in 
the Poems. 



124 



LKTTEKS. 



Mr. Kennedy^ that you are, in immortal Al- 
lan's language, *' Hale and weel, and living ;." 
and that your charming family are well, and 
promising to be an amiable and respectable 
addition to the company of performers, whom 
the great Manager of the drama of Man is 
bringing into action for the succeeding age. 

AVith respect to ray welfare, a subject in 
which you once warmly and effectively in- 
terested yourself, I am here in my old way. 
holding my plough, marking the growth of 
my corn, or the health of my dairy ; and at 
times sauntering by the delightful windings 
of the Nith, on the margin of which I have 
built my humble domicile, praying for sea- 
sonable weather, or holding an intrigue with 
the muses, the only gipsies with whom I have 
now any intercourse. As I am entered into 
the holy state of matrimony, 1 trust my face 
is turned completely Zion-ward ; and as it is 
a rule with all honest fellows to repeat no 
grievances, I hope that the little poetic li- 
censes of former days will of course fall un- 
der the oblivious influence of some good-na- 
tured statute of celestial proscription. In 
my family devotion, which, like a good pres- 
byterian, I occasionally give to my house- 
hold folks, I am extremely fond of the psalm, 
" Let not the errors of my youth," &c. and 
that other, '' Lo, children are God's heri- 
tage," &c. ; in which last, Mrs. Burns, who. 
by the by, has a glorious " wood-note wild" 
at either old song or psalmody, joins me with 
the pathos of Handel's Messiah. 



No. LXXVI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 21st June, 1789. 

Dear Madam, 

Will you take the effusions, the ihisera- 
ble effusions, of low spirits, just as they flow 
from their bitter spring ? I know not of any 
particular cause for this worst of all my foes 
besetting me, but for some time my soul has 
been beclouded with a thickening atmos- 
phere of evil imaginations and gloomy pre- 
sages. 



Monday Evening. 
I have just heard * * * « giy© a ser- 
mon. He is a man famous for his benevo- 
lence, and I revere him; but from such ideas 
of my Creator, good Lord deliver me ! Re- 
ligion, my honoured friend, is surely a sim- 
ple business, as it equally concerns the igno- 
rant and the learned, the poor and the rich. 



That there is an mcompfehensibly Great 
Being, to whom 1 owe my existence, and that 
he must be intimately acquainted with the 
operations and progres.s of the internal ma- 
chinery, and consequent outward deport- 
ment of this creiiture which he has made: 
these are, I think, self evident propositions. 
That there is a real and eternal distinction 
between virtue and vice, and consequently, 
that I ajn an accountable creature ; that from 
the seeming nature of the human mind, as 
well as from the evident imperfection, nay, 
positive injustice, in the adminisstration of 
affairs, both in the natural and moral worlds, 
there must be a retributive scene of exist- 
ence beyond the grave — must, I think, be 
allowed by every one who will give himself 
a moment's reflection. I will go farther, and 
affirm, that from the sublimity, excellence 
and purity of his doctrine and precepts, un- 
paralleled by all the aggravated wisdom and 
learning^ of many preceding ages, though to 
appearance, he himself was the obscurest, 
and most illiterate of our species ; therefore 
Jesus Christ was from God. 



Whatever mitigates the woes, or increases 
the happiness of others, this is my criterion 
of goodness; and whatever injures society 
at large, or any individual in it, this is my 
measure of iniquity. 

What think youj Madam, of my creed .•* I 
trust that I have said nothing that will lessen 
me in the eye of one whose good opinion I 
value almost next to the approbation of my 
own mind. 



No. Lxxvn. 

FROM DR. MOORE. 

Clifford- Street, lOtk June, 1789. 
Dear Sir, 

1 thank you for the different communi- 
cations you have made me, of your occasional 
productions in manuscript, al\ of which have 
merit, and some of them merit of a, ^iifferent 
kind from what appears in the poems you 
have published. You ought carefully to pre- 
serve all your occasional productions, to cor- 
rect and improve them at your leisure ; and 
when you can select as many of these as will 
make a volume, publish it either at Edin- 
burgh or London, by subscription ; on such 
an occasion, it may be in my power, as it is 
very much in my inclination, to be of ser- 
vice to you. 

If I were to offer an opinion, it would be, 
that, in your future productions, you should 
abandon the Scottish stanza and dialect, and 



LETTERS. 



12^ 



adopt the measure and language of modern 
English poetry. 

The stanza which you use in imitation of 
Christ kirk on the, Green, with the tiresome 
repetition of- that day," is fatiguing to Eng- 
lish ears, and I should think not very agree- 
able to Scottish. 

All the fine satire and humour of your 
Holy Fair is lost on the English ; yet, with- 
out more trouble to yourself, you could have 
conveyed the whole to them. The same is 
true of some of your other poems. In your 

Epistle to J. S , the stanzas, from that 

beginning with this line, " This life, so far's 
I understand," to that which ends with — 
" Short while it grieves," are easy, flowing, 
gayly philosophical, and of Horatian ele- 
gance — the language is English, with a/ero 
Scottish words, and some of those so harmo- 
nious as to add to the beauty ; for what poet 
would not prefer gloaming to twilight ? 

I imagine, that by carefully keeping, and 
occasionally polishing and correcting those 
verses, which the muse dictates, you will, 
within a year or two, have another volume 
as large as the first, ready for the press : and 
this without diverting you from every pro- 
per attention to the study and practice of 
husbandry, in which I understand you are 
very learned, and which I fancy you will 
choose to adhere to as a wife, while poetry 
amuses you from time to time as a mistress. 
The former, like a prudent wife, must not 
show ill-humour, although you retain a sneak- 
ing kindness to this agreeable gipsy, and pay 
her occasional visits, which in no manner 
alienates your heart from your lawful spouse, 
but tends on the contrary to promote her in- 
terest. 

I desired Mr. Cadell to write to Mr. Creech 
to send you a copy ef Zelucn. This perform- 
ance has had great success here ; bu* 1 shall 
be glad to have your opinion of it, because I 
value your opinion, and becawi^e I know you 
are above saying what you do not thmk. 

I beg you wiJ' oiFer my best wishes to my 
very good fritsnd, Mrs. Hamilton, who I un- 
derstand i? your neighbour. If she is as hap- 
py as I "ish her, she is happy enough. Make 
my conipliments also to Mrs. Burns : and 
boJiCve me to be, with sincere esteem, 

Dear Sir, yours, &c. 



Sir, 



No. LXXVIII. 
FROM MISS J. LITTLE. 

Loudon House, I2th July, 1789. 



Though I have not the happiness of 
being personally acquainted with you, yet, 



amongst the number of tho.se who have read 
and admired your puUlications, may I be per- 
mitted to trouble you with tliis. You must 
know, Sir, 1 am somewhat in love with the 
Muses, though I cannot boast of any favours 
they have deigned to confer upon me as yet ; 
my situation in life has been very much 
against me as to that. I have spent some 
years in and about Ecclefechan (where my 
parents reside,) in the station of a servant, 
and am now come to Loudon House, at pre- 
sent possessed by Mrs. H : she is daugh- 
ter to Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop, whom I un- 
derstand you are particularly acquainted 
with. As I had the pleasure of perusing 
your poems, 1 felt a partiality for the author, 
which I should not have experienced had 
you been in a more dignified station. I 
wrote a few verses of address to you, which 
I did not then think of ever presenting ; but 
as fortune seems to have favoured me in this, 
by bringing me into a family by whom you 
are well known and much esteemed, and 
where perhaps I may have an opportunity of 
seeing you, I shall, in hopes of your future 
friendship, take the liberty to transcribe 
them. 



Fair fa' the honest rustic swaia 
The pride o' a' our Scottish }ilajn. 
Thou gie's us joy to hear thy straiii^ 

And notes sae sweet : 
Old Ramsay's shade reviv'd again 

In thee we greet. 

Lov'd Thalia, that fielightful muse, 
Seem'd lang shut up as a recluse ; 
To all she did her aid refuse, 

Since Allan's day ; 
Till Burns arose, then did she choose 

To grace his lay. 

To hear thy sang all ranks desire, 
Sae weel you strike the dormant lyre; 
Apollo with poetic fire 

Thy breast does warm i 
And critics silently admire 

Thy art to charm. 

Caesar and Luath weel can speak, 
'Tis pity e'er their gabs should steek,- 
But into human nature keek. 

And knots unravel: 
To hear their lectures once a week, 

Nine miles I'd travel. 

Thy dedication to G. H. 

An unco bonnie liamespun speech, 

\\V winsome glee the heart can teach 

A better lesson, 
Than servile hards, who fawn and fleech 

Like beggar's meeson. 

When slighted love becomes your theme, 
And women's faithless vows you blame ; 
With so much pathos you exclaim, 
In vonr JCanreirt : 



126 



LETTERS. 



But glanc'd by tlie most frigid dame, 
She would relent. 

The daisy, too, ye sing wi' skill ; 
And weelye praise the whisky gill ; 
In vain I blunt my feckless quill, 

Your fame to raise; 
While echo sounds fioni ilka hill, 

To Burns's praise. 

Did Addison or Pope but hear. 
Of Sam, that critic most severe, 
A ploughboy sing with throat sae clear 

They, in a rage. 
Their works would a' in pieces tear, 

And curse your page. 

Sure Milton's eloquence were faint. 
The beauties of your verse to paint ; 
My rude unpolish'd strokes but taint 

Their brilliancy; 
Th' attempt would doubtless vex a saint, 

And weel may thee. 

The task I'll drop — with heart sincere 
To Heaven present my humble pray'r, 
That all the blessings mortals share, 

May be by turns 
Dispens'd by an indulgent care, 

To Robert Burns! 

Sir, I hope you will pardon my boldness 
m this, my hand trembles while I write to 
you, conscious of my unworthiness of what 
1 would most earnestly solicit, viz. your fa- 
vour and friendship ; yet hoping you will 
show yourself possessed of as much gene- 
rosity and good nature as will prevent your 
exposing what may justly be found liable to 
censure in this measure, I shall take the li- 
berty to subscribe myself, 
Sir, 
Your most obedient, humble servant, 
JANET LITTLE. 

P. S. If you would condescend to honour 
me with a few lines from your hand, I would 
take it as a particular favour ; and direct to 
me at Loudon House, near Galston. 



No. LXXIX. 
FROM MR. — 



London, oth jiug7tst, 1789. 

My Dear Sir, 

Excuse me when I say, that the uncom- 
mon abilities which you possess must render 
your correspondence very acceptable to any 
one. I can assure you I am particularly 
proud of your partiality, and shall endeavour 
by every method in my power to merit a con- 
tinuance of your politeness. 



When you can spare a few moments, 1 
should be proud of a letter from you, direct- 
ed for me, Gerard-street, Soho. 



I cannot express my happiness sufficiently 
at the instance of your attachment to my late 
inestimable friend.. Bob Fergusson,* who was 
particularly intimate with myself and rela- 
tions. While I recollect with pleasure his 
extraordinary talents, and many amiable qua- 
lities, it affi^rds me the greatest consolation 
that I am honoured with the correspondence 
of his successor in national simplicity arid 
genius. That Mr. Burns has refined in the 
art of poetry, must readily be admitted, but 
notwithstanding many favourable representa- 
tions, I am yet to learn that he inherits his 
convivial powers. 

There was such a richness of conversation, 
such a plenitude of fancy and attraction in 
him, that when I call the happy period of our 
intercourse to my memory, I feel myself in 
a state of delirium. I was then younger than 
him by eight or ten years, but his manner 
was so felicitous, that he enraptured every 
person around him, and infused into the 
hearts of the young and the old the spirit 
and animation which operated in his own 
mind. 

I am. Dear Sir, yours, &c. 



No. LXXX. 
TO MR. 



In answer to the foregoing. 

My Dear Sir, 

The hurry of a farmer in this particular 
Sioason, and the indolence of a poet at all 
times Qnd seasons, will, I hope, plead my ex- 
cuse for meglecting so long to answer your 
obhging letitr of the 5th of August. 

That you have done, well in quitting your 
laborious concern in **** Ido not doubt: the 
weighty reasons you mention were, I hope, 
very deservedly indeed, weighty ones; and 
your health is a matter of the la^st impor- 
tance : but w^hether the remaining j^roprie- 
tors of the papers have . also done we^l, is 
what I much doubt. The ****, so far as T 
was a reader, exhibited such a brilliancy of 
point, such an elegance of paragraph, and 
such a variety of intelligence, that I can 
hardly conceive it possible to continue a 
daily paper in the same degree of excellence : 
but, if there, was a man who had abilities 
equal to the task, that man's assistance the 
proprietors have lost. 

* The erection of a monument to him. 



LETTERS. 



127 



When I received your letter, I was tran- 
scribing for , my letter to the magis- 
trates of the Canongato, Edinburgh, beofging 
their permission to place a tombstone over 
poor Fergusson, and their edict, in conse- 
quence of my petition, but now I shall send 
them to * * * Poor Fergusson ! 
If there be a life beyond the grave, which I 
trust there is ; and if there be a good God 
presiding over all nature, which I am sure 
there is, thou art now enjoying existence in 
a glorious world, where worth of the heart 
alone is distinction in the man ; where riches, 
deprived of all their pleasure-purchasing pow- 
ers, return to their native sordid matter: 
where titles and honour are the disregarded 
reveries of an idle dream ; and where that 
heavy virtue, which is the negative conse- 
quence of steady dullness, and those thought- 
less, though often destructive follies, which 
are the unavoidable aberrations of frail hu- 
man nature, will be thrown into equal obli- 
vion as if they had never been. 

Adieu, my dear Sir ! So soon as your pre- 
sent views and schemes are concentred in an 
aim, I shall be glad to hear from you ; as 
your welfare and happiness is by no means a 
subject indifferent to 

Yours, &c. 



No. LXXXI. 
TO MISS WILLIAMS. 



1789. 



Madam, 

Of the many problems in the nature of 
that wonderful creature, Man, this is one of 
the most extraordinary, that he shall go on 
from day to day, Irom week to week, from 
month to month, or perhaps from year to 
year, suffering a hundred times more in an 
hour from the impotent consciousness of neg- 
lecting what we ought to do, than the very 
doing of it would cost him. I am deeply in- 
debted to you, first for a most elegant poetic 
compliment ;* then for a polite obliging let- 
ter; and lastly, for your excellent poem on 
the Slave trade *, and yet, wretch th t I am ! 
though the debts were debts of honour, and 
the creditor a lady, I have put off and put 
off, even the very acknowledgment of the 
obligation, until you must indeed be tlie very 
angel I take you for, if you can forgive me. 

Your poem I have read with the highest 
pleasure. I have a way, whenever I read a 
book, I mean a book in our own trade, Ma- 
dam, a poetic one, and when it is my own 

* See Miss Smith's sonnet. 



property, that I take a pencil and mark at 
the ends of verses, or note on margins and 
odd paper, little criticisms of approbation or 
disapprobation as I peruse along. I will 
make no apology for presenting you with a 
few unconnected thoughts that occurred to 
me in my repeated perusal of your poem. I 
want to show you that I have honesty enough 
to tell you what I take to be truths, even 
when they are not quite on the side of appro- 
bation ; and I do it in the firm faith, that you 
have equal greatness of mind to hear them 
with pleasure. 

I had lately the honour of a letter from 
Dr. Moore, where he tells me that he has 
sent me some books. They are not yet come 
to hand, but I hear they are on the way. 

Wishing you all success in your progress 
in the path of fame ; and that you may equal- 
ly escape the danger of stumbling through 
incautious speed, or losing ground through 
loitering neglect. 

I have the honour to be, &c. 



No. LXXXII. 
FROM MISS WILLIAMS. 

7th August^ 1780. 

Dear Sir, 

I do not lose a moment in returning you 
my sincere acknowledgments for your letter, 
and your criticism on my poem, which is a 
very flattering proof that you have read it 
with attention. I think your objections are 
perfectly just, except in one instance. 



You have indeed been very profuse of pa- 
negyric on my little performance. A much 
less portion of applause from you would have 
been gratifying to me ; since I think its va- 
lue depends entirely upon the source from 
whence its proceeds— the incense of praise, 
like other incense, is more grateful from the 
quality than the quantity of the odour. 

I hope you still cultivate the pleasures of 
poetry, which are precious, even independent 
of the rewards of fame. Perhaps the most 
valuable property of poetry is its power of 
disengaging the mind from worldly cares, 
and leading the imagination to the richest 
sprino-s of intellectual enjoyment; since, 
however frequently life may be chequered 
with gloomy scenes, those who truly love the 
Muse can always find one little path adorned 
with flowers and cheered by sunshine. 



128 



LETTERS. 



No. LXXXIII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

ElUsland, i5th September, 1789. 

Dear Madam, 

I have mentioned, in my last, n)y ap- 
pointment to thie excise, and the birth of lit- 
tle Frank, who, by the by, I trust will be no 
discredit to the honourable name of Wallace, 
as he has a fine manly countenance, and a 
figure that might do credit to a little fellow 
two months older ; and likewise an excellent 
good temper, though, when he pleases, he 
has a pipe, only not quite so loud as the 
horn that his immortal namesake blew as a 
signal to take out the pin of Stirling bridge. 

I had sometime ago an epistle, part poetic, 
and part prosaic, from your poetess, Mrs. J. 
Little, a very ingenious but modest compo- 
sition. I should have written her, as she re- 
quested, tut for the hurry of this new busi- 
ness. I have heard of her and her composi- 
tions in this country ; and I am happy to add, 
always to the honour of her character. The 
fact is; I know not well how to write to her: 
I should sit down to a sheet of paper that I 
knew not how to stain. I am no dab at fine- 
drawn letter writing ; and except when 
prompted by friendship or gratitude, or, 
which happens extremely rare, inspired by 
the Muse (I know not her name) that pre- 
sides over epistolary writing, I sit down, 
when necessited to write, as I would sit 
down to beat hemp. 

Some parts of your letter of the 20th Au- 
gust struck me with the most melancholy 
concern for the state of your mind at present. 



Would I could write you a letter of com- 
fort! I would sit down to it with as much 
pleasure as I would to write an Epic poem of 
my own composition that should equal the 
Iliad. Religion, my dear friend, is the true 
comfort. A strong persuasion in a future 
state of existence ; a proposition so obviously 
probable, that, setting revelation aside, every 
nation and people, so far as investigation has 
reached, for at least near four thousand years, 
have in some mode or other firmly believed 
it. In vain would we reason and pretend to 
doubt. I have myself done so to a very dar- 
ing pitch ; but when I reflected that 1 was 
opposing the most ardent wishes, and the 
most darling hopes of good men, and flying 
in the face of all human belief, in all ages, I 
was shocked at my own conduct. 

I know not whether I have ever sent you 
the following linos, or if you have ever seen 
them ; but it is one of mv favourite quota- 



tions, which I keep constantl}'^ by me in my 
progress through life, in the language of the 
book of Job, 

" Against the day of battle and of war" — 

spoken of relig^ion. 

" 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning 

bright, 
'Tis this tiiat gilds the horror of our night. 
When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are 

few ; 
When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue ; 
'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart. 
Disarms aflfiiclion, or repels his dart ; 
Within the breast bids purest raptures rise. 
Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless 

skies." 

I have been very busy with Zcluco. The 
Doctor is so obliging as to request my opinion 
of it ; and I have been revolving in my mind 
some kind of criticisms on novel-writing, but 
iti&a depth beyond my research. I shall, 
however, digest my thoughts on the subject 
as well as I can. Zeluco is a most sterling 
performance. 

Farewell ! Dieu, le bon Dieu,je vous com- 
mende ! 



No. LXXXIV. 
FROM DR. BLACKLOCK. 

Edinburgh, 24</t August, 1789. 

Dear Burns, thou brother of my heart. 
Both for thy virtues and thy art ; 
If art it may be call'd in thee, 
Which nature's bounty, large and free, 
With pleasure on thy breast difiuses. 
And warms thy soul with all the Muses. 
Whether to laugh with easy grace, 
Thy number's move the sage's face, 
Or bid the softer passions rise. 
And ruthless souls with grief surprise, 
'Tis nature's voice distinctly felt, 
Through thee her organ thus to melt. 

Most anxiously I wish to know. 
With thee of late how matters go ; 
How keeps thy much-loved Jean her health ? 
What promises thy farm of wealth .'* 
Whether the muse persists to smile, 
And all thy anxious cures beguile ? 
Whether bright fancy keeps alive ? 
And how thy darling infants thrive .'' 

For me, with grief and sickness spent, 
Since I my journey homeward bent, 
Spirits depress'd no more 1 mourn, 
But vigour, life, and health return, 
No more to gloomy thoughts a prey, 
I sleep all night, and live all day .; 



LETTEliJ?. 



129 



By turns my book and friend enjoy, 
And thus my circling hours employ ! 
Happy while yet these Ii^urs lemain 
If Burns could join tlie cheerful train, 
With wonted zeal, sincere and fervent, 
Salute once more his humble servant, 
THO. BLACKLOCK. 



No. LXXXV. 

TO DR. BLACKLOCK.—See Poems, 
p. 77. 



No. LXXXVI. 
TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. OF FINTRY 



9th December, 1789. 



Sir, 



I have a good while had a wish to trou- 
ble you with a letter, and had certainly done 
it ere now, but for a humiliating something 
that throws cold water on the resolution, as 
if one should say, " You have found Mr. 
Graham a very powerful and kind friend in- 
deed ; and that interest he is so kindly tak- 
ing in your concerns, you ought, by every 
thing in your power to keep alive and che- 
rish." Now though since God has thought 
proper to make one powerful and another 
helpless, the connexion of obliger and obliged 
is all fair ; and though my being under your 
patronage is to me highly honourable, yet. 
Sir, allow me to flatter myself, that as a poet 
and an honest man, you first interested your- 
self in my welfare, and principally as such 
still, you permit me to approach you. 

I have found the excise-business go on a 
great deal smoother with me than I expect- 
ed ; owing a good deal to the generous friend- 
ship of Mr. Mitchell, my collector, and the 
kind assistance of Mr. Findlater, my super- 
visor. I dare to be honest, and I fear no la- 
bour. Nor do I find my hurried life greatly 
inimical to my correspondence with the 
Muses. Their visits to me, indeed, and I 
believe to most of their acquaintance, like 
the visits of good angels, are short and far 
between ; but I meet them now and then as 
I jog through the hills of Nithsdale, just as I 
used to do on the banks of Ayr. I take the 
liberty to enclose you a few bagatelles, all of 
them the productions of my leisure thoughts 
in my excise rides. 

If you know or have ever seen Captain 
Grose the antiquarian, you will enter into 
any humour that is in the verses on him. 
Perhaps you have seen them before, as I sent 
them to a London newspaper. Though I 
dare say you have none of the solemn-league- 



and-covenant fire, which shone so conspicu- 
ous in Lord George Gordon and the Kilmar- 
nock weavers, yet I think you must have 
heard of Dr M'Gill, one of the clergymen of 
Ayr, and his heretical book. God help him, 
poor man ! Though he is one of the wor- 
thiest, as well as one of the ablest of the 
whole priesthood of the Kirk of Scotland, in 
every sense of that ambiguous term, yet the 
poor Doctor and hi? numerous family are in 
imminent danger of being thrown out to the 
mercy of the winter-winds. The enclosed 
ballad on that business is, I confess, too lo- 
cal, but I laughed myself at some conceits 
in -it, though I am convinced in my con- 
science that there are a good many heavy 
stanzas in it too. 

The election ballad, as you will see, al- 
ludes to the present canvass in our string of 
boroughs. I do not believe there will be 
such a hard-run match in the whole general 
election.* 



I am too little a man to have any political 
attachments ; I am deeply indebted to, and 
have the warmest veneration for, individuals 
of both parlies ; but a man who has it in his 
power to be the father of a country, and who 
* * * * is a character that one 
cannot speak of with patience. 

Sir J. J. does " what man can do ;" but 
yet I doubt his fate. 



No. Lxxxvn. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
Ellislandf IZih December, 1789. 

Many thanks, dear Madam, for your 
sheetful of rhymes. Though at present I 
am below the veriest prose, yet from you 
every thing pleases. I am groaning under 
the miseries of a diseased nervous system ; a 
system, the state of which is most conducive 
to our happiness — or the most productive of 
our misery. For now near three weeks I 
have been so ill with the nervous head-ache, 
that I have been obliged to give up for a 
time my excise-books, being scarcely able to 
lift my head, much less to ride once a week 
over ten muir parishes. What is man ? To- 
day in the luxuriance of health, exulting in 
the enjoyment of existence ; in a few days, 
perhaps in a few hours, loaded with conscious 
painful being, counting the tardy pace of the 

* This alludes to the contest for the borough 
of Dumfries, between the Duke of Queensherry's: 
interest and that of Sir James Johnstone. E 



130 



LETTERS. 



lingering moments by the repercussions of 
anguish, and refusing or denied a comforter, 
day follows night, and night conies after day, 
only to curse him with life which gives him 
no pleasure ; and j-et the awful, dark termi- 
nation of that life is a something at which he 
recoils. 

" Tell us, ye dead ; will none of you in pity 

Disclose the secret • 

IVhat "'tis you are,, and we must shortly be ! 

'tis no matter : 

A little time will make us learn'd as you are." 

Can it be possible, that when I resign this 
frail, feverish being, I shall still find myself 
in conscious existence ! When the last gasp 
of agony has announced that I am no more 
to those that knew mi^;, and the few wUo loved 
me; when the cold, s'iiFenec', unconscious, 
ghastly corpse is resigned into the earth, to 
be the prey of unsightly reptiles, and to be- 
come in time a trodden clod, shall I be yet 
warm in life, seeing and seen, enjoying and 
enjoyed ? Ye venerable sages, and holy fla- 
mens, is there probability in your conjec- 
lureSj truth in your stories, of another world 
beyond death ; or, are they all alike, base- 
less visions, and fabricated fables.'' If there 
is another life, it must be only for the just, 
the benevolent, the amiable, and the humane : 
what a flattering idea, then, is a world to 
come ! Would to God I as firmly believed 
it, as I ardently wish it ! There I should 
meet an aged parent, now at rest from the 
many bufietings of an evil world, against 
which he so long and so bravely struggled. 
There should I meet the friend, the disinte- 
rested friend of my early life ; the man who 
rejoiced to see me, because he loved me and 

could serve me. Muir; thy weaknesses 

were the < berrations of human nature ; but 
thy heart glowed with every thing generous, 
manly and noble ; and if ever emanation from 
the All-good Being animated a hunirvn form, 
it is thine ! — There should I, with speeciiless 
agony of rapture, again recognise my lost, 
my ever dear Mary ! whose bosom was fraught 
with truth, honour, constancy, and love. 



My Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of heavenly rest .' 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ; 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast .'' 



Jesus Christ, thou amiablest of characters ! 
I trust thou art no impostor, and that thy re- 
velation of blissful scenes of existence beyond 
death and the grave, is not one of the many 
impositions which, time after time, have been 
palmed on credulous mankind I trust that 
in thee " shall all the families of the earth be 
blessed," by being yet connected together 
in a better world, where every tie that bound 



heart to heart in this state of existence, shall 
be, far beyond our present conceptions, more 
endearing. 

I am a good deal inclined to think with 
those who maintain, that what are called 
nervous affections are in fact diseases of the 
mind. I cannot reason, I cannot think ; and 
but to you I would not venture to write any 
thing above an order to a cobbler. You have 
felt too much of the ills of life not to sympa- 
thize with a diseased wretch, who is impaired 
more than half of any faculties he possessed. 
Your goodness will excuse this distracted 
scrawl, which the writer dare scarcely read, 
and which he would throw into the fire were 
he able to write any thing better, or indeed 
any thing at all. 

Rumour told me something of a son of 
yours who was returned from the East or 
Wesi-Indies. If you have gotten news of 
James or Anthony, it was cruel in you not 
to let me know ; as I promise you on the sin- 
cerity of a man who is weary of one world 
and anxious about another, that scarce any 
thing could give me so much pleasure, as to 
hear of any good thing befalling my honour- 
ed friend. 

If you have a minutes leisure, take up your 
pen in pity to le pauvre miserable. 

R. B. 



No. LXXXVIII. 
TO SIR JOHN SINCLAIR. 

Sir, 

The following circumstance, has I be- 
lieve been omitted m fhe staHstica' account 
transmitted to you, of the parish of Dunscore, 
in Nithsdale. I beg leave to send it to yoit, 
because it is new, and may be useful. How 
far it is deserving a place in your patriotic 
publication, you are the best judge. 

To store the minds of the lower classes 
with useful knowledge, is certainly of very 
great importance, both to them as indivi- 
duals, and to society at large. Giving them 
a turn for reading and reflection, is giving 
them a source of innocent and laudable 
amusement ; and, besides, raises them to a 
more dignified degree in the scale of ration- 
ality. Impressed with this idea, a gentle- 
man in this parish, Robert Riddel, Esq. of 
Glenriddel, set on foot a species of circulat- 
ing library, on a plan so simple as to be prac- 
ticable in any corner of the country ; and so 
useful as to deserve the notice ofevery coun- 
try gentleman, who thinks the improvement 
of that part of his own species, whom chance 
has thrown into the humble walks of the pea- 



LETTERS. 



131 



sant and the artisan, a matter worthy of his 
attention. 

Mr, Riddel got a number of Jiis own te- 
nants, and farming neighbours, to form them- 
selves into a society for the purpose of hav- 
ing a library among themselves They en- 
tered into a legal engagement to abide by it 
for three years ; with a saving clause or two, 
in case of a removal to a distance, or of death 
Each member, at his entry, paid five shil- 
lings ; and at each of their meetings, which 
were held every fourth Saturday, sixpence 
more. With their entry-money, and the 
credit which they took on the faith of their 
future funds, they laid in a tolerable stock 
of books, at the connnencement- What au- 
thors they were to purchase, was alwa3^s de- 
cided by the majority. At every meeting, 
all the b joks, under certain fines and forfeit- 
ures, by way of penalty, were to be pro- 
duced ; and the members had their choice of 
the volumes in rotation. He whose name 
stood for that night first on the list, had his 
choice of what volume he pleased in the 
'^vhole collection ; the second had hrs choice 
after the first ; the third after the second, 
and so on to the last. At next meeting, he 
who had been first on the list at the preceding 
meeting was last at this; he who had been 
second was first; and so on through the 
whole three years. At the expiration of the 
engagement, the books were sold hy auction, 
but only among the members themselves; 
and each man had share of the common stock, 
in money or in books, as he chose to be a 
purchaser or not. 

At the breaking up of this little society, 
which was formed under Mr. Riddel's pa- 
tronage, what with benefactions of books 
from him, and what with their own pur- 
chases, they had c>llected together upwavcis 
of one hundred and fifty volumes. It will 
easily be guessed, that a good <^eal of trash 
would be bought. Among the books, how- 
ever, of this little library, were, Blair's Ser- 
mons, Robertson's History of Scotland, 
Hume's History of the Stuarts, The Specta- 
tor, Idler, Adventurer, Mirror, Lounger, 
Obseivcr, Man of Feeling, Man of the World, 
Chrysal, Don Quixote, Joseph Andrcirs, S^c 
A peasant who can read and enjoy such 
books, is cetainly a much superior being to 
his neighbour, who perhaps stalks beside his 
team, Very little reinovod, except in shape, 
from the brutes he drives.* 

* This letter is extracted from the third volume 
of Sir John Sinclair's Statistics, p. 589. -It was 
enclosed to Sir John by Mr. Riddel himself, in 
the following letter, also printed there. 

" Sir John, 1 enclose you a letter, written by 
Mr. Burns, as an addition to the account of Dun- 
score parish. It contains an account of a small 
library which he was so good (at mj' desire) as 
to set on foot, in the baronv of Monkland, or 

\0 



Wishing your patriotic exertions their so 
much-merited success, 

I am. Sir, your huinble servant, 
A PEASANT. 



No. LXXXIX. 

TO CHARLES SHARPE, ESQ. OF 
nODDAM. 

Under a, fictitious Signature, enclosing a 
ballad, 1790, or 1791. 

It is true, Sir, you are a gentleman of 
rank and fortune, and 1 am a poor devil; you 
are a feather in the cap of society, and I am 
a very hobnail in his shoes ; yet I have the 
honour to belong to the same family with 
you, and on that score I now address you. 
You will perhaps suspect that I am going to 
claim afiinity with the ancient and honoura- 
ble house of Kilpatrick : No, no, Sir: 1 can- 
not indeed be properly said to belong to any 
house, or even any province or kingdom, as 
my mother, who for many years was spouse 
to a marching regiment, gave me into this 
bad world, aboard the packet boat, some- 
where between Donaghadee and Portpatrick. 
By our common family, I mean, &ir, the fa- 
mily of the Muses. 1 am a fiddler and a 
poet; and you, I am told, play an exquisite 
violin, and have a standard taste in the 
Belles Lett res. The other day, a brother 
catgut gave me a charming Scots air of your 
composition. If I was pleased with the tunc, 
j 1 was in r;i|»tures with the title you have 
givc4iit; find, taking up the idea, I have 
spun it into three stanzas enclosed. Will 
you allow me, Sir, to present you them, as 
the dearest offering that a misbegotten son of 
poverty and rhyme has to give; I have a 
longing to take you by the hand and unbur- 
den my heart by saying — " Sir, I lionouryou 
as a man who supports the dignity of human 
nature, amid an age when frivolity and ava- 
rice have, between them, debased us below 



Friai's Carse, in this parish. As its utility has 
been felt, particularly among the younger class 
of people, I tiiink, iliat if a isimilar plan were es- 
tablished in the different parishes in Scotland, it 
would tend greatly to the speedy improvement of 
tiie tenantry, trades-people, and work-people. — 
Mr. Burns was so good as to take the whole 
ciiarge of this small concern. He was treasurer, 
librarian, and censor, to this little society, who 
will long liave a grateful sense of his public spirit 
and exertions for their imjirovement and infor- 
mation. 

I liave the honour to be, Sir John, 
Yours, most sincerely, 

ROBERT RIDDEL.'- 
To Sir John Sinclair, of Ulster, Bart. 



132 



Lb'TTERS. 



tfie brutes that perish !" But, alas^ Sir ! to 
Hie vou are unapproachable. It is true, the 
jMuses baptized me in Castalian streams, but 
the thoughtless gipsies forgot to give me a 
name. As the sex have served many a good 
fellow, the Nine have given me a great deal 
of pleasure, but bcwitcliing jades ! tliey have 
beggared me. Would they but spare me a 
litrle of their cast linen i were it only to put 
it in my power tn say that I have a shirt on 
luy back ! Bui the idle wenche.l, like Solo- 
mon's lilies, " they tcdl not neither do the^' 
spin ;" so I must e'en ctintiuue to tie my 
remnant of a cravat, like the hangman's rope, 
round my naked throat, and coax my galli- 
gaskins to keep together their many-colour- 
ed fragments. As to the affair of shoes, I 
have given that up. — JMy pilgrimages in my 
ballad trade from town to town, and on your 
stony-hearted turnpikes too, are what not 
even the hide of Job's Behemoth could bear. 
The coat on my back is no moi-e : I shall not 
speak evil of the dead. It would be equally 
unhandsome and ungrateful to find fault with 
my old surtout, which so kindly supplies and 
conceals the want of that coat. My hat in- 
deed is a great favoorite ; and though I got 
it literally for an old song, I would not ex- 
change it for the best beaver in Britain. I 
was, during several years, a kind of factotum 
servant to a country clergyman, where I 
picked up a good many scraps of learning, 
particularly in some branches of the mathe- 
matics. Whenever I feel incHned to rest 
myself on my way, I take my seat under a 
hedge, laying my poetic wallet on my one 
side, and my fiddle-case on the other, and 
placing my hat between my legs, I can by 
means of its brim, or rather brims, go through 
the whole doctrine of the Conic Sections. 

However, Sir, don't let me mislead yuu, 
as if I would interest your pity. Fortune 
has so much forsaken me, that she has taught 
me to live without her ; and, amid all my rugs 
and poverty, I am as independent, and much 
more happy than a monarch of the world 
According to the hackneyed metaphor, I va- 
lue the several actors in the great drama of 
life, simply as they act their parts I can 
look on a worthless fellow of a duke with un- 
qualified contempt ; and can regard an ho- 
nest scavenger with sincere respect. As you. 
Sir, go through your roll with such distin- 
guished merit, permit me to make one in the 
chorus of universal applause, and assure you 
{hat, with the highest respect, 

I have the honour to be, &c. 



No. XC. 
TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 

Ellisland, llth January, 1790. 

Dear Brother, 

I mean to take advantage of the frank, 
rhough I have not, in my present frame of 



mind, much appetite for exertion in writing- 
My nerves are in a **** state. I feel that 
horrid hypocondria pervading every atom of 
both body and soul. This farm has undone 
my enjovment of myself It is a ruinous af- 
fair en all hands. But let it go to **** ! I'll 
ti^ht it out and be off with it. 

We have gotten a set of very decent play- 
ers here just now. I have seen them an 
evening or two. David Campbell, in Ayr, 
wrote to me by the njanagerof the company, 
a Mr. Sutherland, who is a man of apparent 
worth. On Nevv-Year-day evening I gave 
him the following prologue,* which he spout- 
ed to his audience with applause — 

I can no more. If once I was clear of this 
farm, 1 should respire more at ease. 



No. XCI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 2^th January, 1790. 

It has been owing to unremitting hurry 
of busiiiess that I have not written to you, 
Madam, long ere now My health is greatly 
better, and 1 row begin once more to share 
in satisfaction and enjoyment with the rest 
of my fellow-creatures. 

Many thanks, my much esteemed friend, 
for your kind letters; but why will you make 
me run the risk of being contemptible and 
mercenary in my own eyes .'' When I pique 
myself on my independent spirit, I hope it is 
neither poetic license, nor poetic rant ; and I 
am so flattered with the honour you have, 
done me, in making me your compeer in 
friendship and friendly correspondence, that 
I cannot without pain and a degree of morti- 
fication, be reminded of the inequality be- 
tween our situations. 

Most sincerely do I rejoice with you, dear 
Mj.dam, in the good newsof .\nthony. Not 
only your anxiety about his fate, but mj' own 
esteem for such a noble, warm-hearted, man- 
ly young fellow, in the Utile I had of his ac- 
quaintance, has interested me deeply in his 
fortunes. 

Falconer, the unfortunate author of tlie 
Shipwreck, whichyouso much admire, is no 
more. After witnessing the dreadful catas- 
trophe he so feelingly describes in his poem, 
and after weathering many hard gales of for- 
tune, he went to the bottom with the Aurora 
frigate ! I forget what part of Scotland had 
the honour of giving him birth, but he was 

* This prologue is printed in the Poems, p. 81. 



LETTEUS. 



133 



the son of obscurity and misfortune.* He 
was one of tho!5e daring adventurous spirits 
which Scotland, beyond any other country, 
is remarkable for producing. Little doestlie 
fond mother think, as she hangs delighted 
over the sweet little leech at her bosom, 
where the poor fellow may hereafter wan- 
der, and what may be his ftite. I remember 
a stanza in m old Scottish ballad, wiiich not- 
witbstanJing its rude simplicity, speaks feel- 
ingly to the heart : 

♦' Little did my inolher think, 
That day she cradled me, 

\Vhal land J was to travel in, 
Or what death I should die !" 

Old Scottish songs are, you know, a fa- 
vourite study and pursuit of mine ; and now 
I am on that subject, allow me to give you 
two s'anzas of another old simple ballad, 
which I am sure will please 3'ou. The catas- 
trophe of the piece is a poor ruined female 
lamenting her fate. She concludes with 
this pathetic wish: 

" O that my father had ne'er on me smil'd ; 

O that my mother had ne'er to me sung; 
O that my cradle had never been rock'd ; 

But that I had died when 1 was young ! 

that the grave it were my bed ; 

My blankets were my winding sheet; 
The clocks and the worms my bedfellows a' ; 
And Osae sound as 1 should sleep !" 

1 do not remember in all my reading to 
have met with any thing more truly the lan- 
guage of misery than the exclamation in the 

* Falconer was in early life a sea-boy, to use a 
word of Sliakspeare, on board a man-of-war, in 
which capacity he attracted the notice of Camp- 
bell, the autlior of ihe satire on Dr. Johnson, en- 
titled Lexiphancs. then purser of the ship. Camp- 
bell took him as a servant, and deliglited in giving 
him instruction ; and when F'alconer afterwards 
acquired celebrity, boasted of him as his scholar. 
The Editor had this information from a surgetai 
of a man-(if-war, in 1T77, wlioknew both Camp- 
bell and Falconer, and who himself perished 
soon after by shipwreck on the coast of America. 

Though the death of Falconer happened so 
lately as 1770 or 1771, yet in the biography pre- 
ti.Ked by Dr. Anderson to his works, in the com- 
plete edition of the Poeta of Great Britain, it is 
said — " Of the family, birth-place, and education 
of William Falconer, there are no memorials." 
On the authority already given, it may be men- 
tioned, that he was a native of one of the towns 
on the coast ol Fife ; and that his parents, who 
had suffered some misfortunes, removed to one of 
the sea-ports of England, where th-y both died 
soon after, of an epidemic fever, leaving poor 
Falconer, then a boy, forlorn aixi destitute. In 
consequenceof which he entered on board a mfin- 
of war. These last circumstances are, however, 
less certain. E. 



last line.^ Misery is like love; to speak its 
language truly, the author must have felt it. 

I am every day expecting the doctor to 
give your little godson* the small-pox. They 
are rife in the country, and 1 tremble for hig 
fate. By the way I cannot help congratu- 
lating you on his looks and spirit. Even- 
person who sees him acknowledges him to 
be the fmest, handsomest child he has ever 
seen. I am myself delighted witluthe man- 
ly swell of his little chest, and a-fertain mi- 
niature dignity in the carriage of his head, 
and the glance of his fine black eye, which 
promises the undaunted gallantry of an in- 
dependent mind. 

I thought to have sent you some rhymes, 
but time forbids. I promise you poetry un- 
til you are tired of it, next time I have the 
honour of assuring you how truly I am, &c. 



No. XCIL 
FROM MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

23f/i January, 1790. 

In some instances it is reckoned unpar- 
donable to quote any one's own words ; but 
the value I have for yoxxr friendship, nothing 
can more truly or more elegantly express 
than 

" Time but the impression stronger makes. 
As streams their channels deeper wear." 

Having written loyou twice without hav- 
ing heard from you, I am apt to think my 
letters have miscarried. My conjecture is 
only framed upon the chapter of accidents 
turning up against me, as it too often does, 
in the trivial, and, I may with truth add, the 
more important affairs of life ; but I shall 
continue occasionally to inform you what is 
going on among the circle of3'our friends iu 
these parts. In these days of merriment, I 
have frequently heard your name proclaimed 
at the j >vial board — under the roof of our 
hospitable friend at Stonehouse-mills ; there 
were no 

"Lingering moments numbered with care." 

I saw your Address to ihe Kcio Year, in 
the Dumfries .Journal. Of your productions 
I shall say nothing ; but my acquaintance al- 
lege tnat when j'our name is nientionecf, 
which every man of celebrity must know 
often happens, i am the champion, the Men- 
doza, against .all snarling critics and nariow- 
minded rcpiiles, of whom tf /(gi^ on this pla- 
net do craiol. 

* The bard's second son, F'rnncis. F^ 



134 



LETTERS. 



With best compliments to your wife, and 
her black-eyed sister, I remain, 

Yours, &c. 



No. XCIII. 
TO MR. CUiNNINGHAM. 



FAlisland, loth Feb. 1790. 



I beg your pardon, my dear and much 
valued friend, for writing to you on this very 
unfashionable, unsightly sheet — 

'» My poverty but not my will consents." 

But to make amends, since on modish post 
[ have none, except one poor widowed half- 
sheet of gilt, which lies in my drawer among 
my plebeian foolscap pages, like the widow 
of a man of fashion, whom that unpolite 
scoundrel, Necessity, has driven from Bur- 
gundy and pine-apple, to a dish of Bohea, 
with the scandal-bearing help-mate of a vil- 
lage priest; or a glassof whisky-toddy, with 
the ruby- nosed yoke-fellow of a foot-padding 
exciseman — I make a vow to enclose this 
sheet full of epistolary fragments in that my 
only scrap of gilt paper. 

I am indeed your unworthy debtor for 
three friendly letters. I ought to have writ- 
ten to you long ere now, but it is a literal 
fact, I have scarcely a spare moment. It is 
not that I loill not write to you ; Miss Bur- 
net is not more dear to her guardian angel, 

nor his Grace the Duke of to the 

powers of than my friend Cunningham 

to me. It is not that I cannot write to you; 
should you doubt it. take the following frag- 
ment which was intended tor you some time 
ago, and be convinced that I can antithesizc 
sentiment, and circumvolute periods, as well 
as any coiner of phrase in the regions of phi- 
lology. 

December, J 789. 

My Dear Cunningham, 

Where are you .'' and what are you 
doing .'' Can you be that son of levity who 
takes up a friendship as he takes up a fashion ; 
or are you, like some other of the worthiest 
fellows in the world, the victun of indolence, 
laden with fetters of ever-increasing weight.^ 

What strange beings we are ! Since wo 
have a portion of conscious existence, equal- 
ly capable of enjoying pleasure, happiness, 
and rapture, or of suffering pain, wretched- 
ness, and misery, it is surely worthy of an 
inquiry whether there be not such a thing as 
a science of life ; whether method, economy, 



and fertility of expedients, be not applicable 
lo enjoyment ; and whether there be not a 
want of dexterity in pleasure which renders 
our little scantling of happiness still less ; 
and a profuseness and intoxication in bliss, 
which leads to satiety, disgust, and self-ab- 
horrence. There is not a doubt but that 
health, talents, character, decent competen- 
cy, respectable friends, are real substantial 
blessings ; and yet do we not daily see those 
who enjoy many or all of these good things, 
contrive, notwithstanding, to be as unhappy 
as others to whose lot few of them have fal- 
len: 1 believe one great source of this mis- 
take is owing to a certain stimulus, with us 
called ambition, which goads us up the hill 
of life, not as we ascend other eminences, 
for the laudable curiosity of viewing an ex- 
tended landscape, but rather for the disho- 
nest pride of looking down on others of our- 
fellow-creatures, seemingly diminutive in 
humbler stations, &c. &c. 



Sunday, Uth Feb. 1790. 

God help me ! I am now obliged to join 

" Night to day, and Sunday to the week." 

If there be any truth in the orthodox faith 
of these churches, I am past redemp- 
tion, and what is worse, to all eternity. 

[ am deeply read in Boston's Fourfold Stale, 
Marshal on Sanctification, Guthrie's Trial of 
a Saving Interest, &/-c. ; but " there is no 
balm in Gilead, there is no physician there," 
for me ; so I shall e'en turn Arminian, and 
trust to " sincere, though imperfect obe- 
dience." 



Tuesday f I6th. 

Luckily for me I tvas prevented from 
the discussion of the knotty point at which I 
had just made a full stop. All my fears and 
cares are of this world: if there is another, 
an honest man has nothing to fear from it. 
I hate a man that wishes to be a Deist; but, 
I fear every fair, unprejudiced inquirer, must 
in some degree be a sceptic. It is not that 
there are any very staggering arguments 
against the immortality of man; but like 
electricity, phlogiston, &.c. the subject is so 
involved in darkness that we want data to go 
upon One thing frightens me much : that 
we are to live for ever, seems too good news 
to be true. That we are to enter into a new 
scene of existence, where, exempt from want 
and pain, we shall enjoy ourselves and our 
friends without satiety or separation — how 
much should I be indebted to any one who 
could fully assure me that this was certain. 



l.KTTERH. 



lar) 



My time is once more expired. I will 
write to Mr. Cleghorn soon. God bless him 
and all his concerns. And may all the pow- 
ers that preside over conviviality and friend 
ship, be present with all their kindest in- 
tltience, when the bearer of this, Mr Syme, 
and you meet! I wish I could also make one. 
1 think we should be * * * * 

Finally, brethren, farewell ! Whatsoever 
things are lovely, whatsoever things are gen- 
tle, whatsoever things are charitable:, what- 
soever things are kind, think on these things, 
and think on 

ROBERT BURNS. 



No. XCIV. 

TO MR. HILL. 

Ellisland, 2d March, 1790. 

At a late meeting of the Monkland 
Friendly Society, it was resolved to aug- 
ment their library by the following books, 
which you are to send to us as soon as possi- 
ble: — The Mirror, The Lounger, Man of 
Feeling, Man of the World, (these for my 
own sake, 'I wish to have by the first carrier,) 
Knox's History of the Reformation; Rat's 
History of the Rebellion in 17J5; any good 
History of the Rebellion in 1745 ; a Display 
of the Secession Act and Testimony, by Mr. 
Gibb; Hervey's Meditations; Beveridge's 
Thoughts ; and another copy of Watson's 
Body of Divinity. 

I vs^rote to Mr. A. Masterton three or four 
months ag(», to pay some money he ow^ed me 
into your hands, and lately I wrote to you to 
the same purpose, but I have heard from nei- 
ther one nor other of you 

In addition to the books I commissioned 
in my last, I want very much, An Index to 
the Excise Laws, or an Abridgment of all the 
Statutes now in force relative to the Excise, 
by Jellinger Symons ; I want three copies 
of this book : if it is now to be had, cheap or 
dear, get it for me. An honest country 
neighbour of mine wants, too, A Family Bi- 
ble, the larger the better, but second-handed, 
for he does not choose to give above ten shil- 
lings for the book. I want likewise for my- 
self, as you can pick them up, second-handed 
or cheap, copies of Otwaifs Dramatic 
Works, Btn Johnson's, Dryden's, Congreve's, 
Wycherley's, Vanburgh's, Gibber's, or any 
Draviittic Works of the more modern, Mack- 
lin, Gar rick, Foote, Coleman, or Sheridan. 
A good copy too, of Moliere, in French, I 
much want. Any other good dramatic au- 
thors in that language I want also, but comic 



authors cliiefly, though I should wish to have 
Racine, Corneille, and Voltaire too. I am in 
no hurry for all, or any of these ; but if you 
accidentally meet with them very cheap, get 
them for me. 

And now to quit he dry walk of business, 
how do you do, my dear friend .'' and how is 
Mrs. Hill.'* 1 trust, if now and then not so 
elegantly handsome, at least as amiable, and 
sings as divinely as ever. My good wife, 
too, lias a charming *' wood-note wild ;" now 
i could we four 



I am out of all patience with this vile 
world for one thing. Mankind are by na- 
ture benevolent creatures. Except in a few 
scoundrelly instances, I do not think that 
avarice of the good things we chance to have, 
is born with us ; but we are placed here amid 
so much nakedness, and hunger, and poverty, 
and want, that we are under a cursed neces- 
sity of studying selfishness, in order that we 
may exist ! Still tliere are, in every age, a 
few souls, that all the wants and woes of th's 
life cannot debase to selfishness, or even to 
the necessary alloy of caution and prudence. 
If ever I am in danger of vanity, it is when I 
contemplate myself on this side of my dispo- 
sition and character. God knows I am no 
saint ; I have a whole host of follies and sins 
to answer for ; but if I could, and 1 believe I 
do it as far as I can, I would wipe away all 
tears from all eyes. Adieu. 



No. XCV. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, I9th April, 1790. 

I have just now, my ever honoured 
friend, enjoyed a very high luxury, in read- 
ing a paper ot the Lounger. You know m}' 
national prejudices I had often read and 
admired the Spectator, Adventurer, Rambler, 
and World; but still with a certain regret, 
that they were so thoroughly and entirely 
English. Alas ! have I often said to myself, 
what are all the boasted advantages which 
my country reaps from the union, that can 
counterbalance the annihilation of her inde- 
pendence, and even her very name ! I often 
repeat that couplet of my favourite poet, 
Goldsmith — 

" States of native liberty possess'd, 
Tho' very poor, ma3-yet be very bless'd." 

Nothing can reconcile me to the common 
terms " English ambassador, English court," 
&c. And I am out of all patience to see that 



136 



LETTEllS. 



equivocal character, Hastingrs, impeached by 
'■ the Commons of England." Tell me, my 
friend, is this weak prejudice ? 1 believe in 
my conscience such ideas as, '* my country ; 
her independence ;* her honour; the illus- 
trious names that mark the history of my na- 
tive land;" &c. I believe these, among 
your men nf the world, men who in fact 
guide for the most part and govern our world, 
are looked on as so many modifications of 
wrongheadedness. They know the use of 
bawling out such terms, to rouse or lead the 
rabble ; but for their own private use ; with 
almost all the able statesmeri ihQ.t ever exist- 
ed, or now exist, when they talk of right and 
wrong, they only mean proper and improper, 
and their measure of conduct is, not what 
they ought, but Vfhat thej dare. For the 
truth of this I shall not ransack the history of 
nations, but appeal to one of the ablest judges 
of men, and himself one of the ablest men 
that ever lived — the celebrated Earl of Ches- 
terfield. In fact, a man who could thorough- 
ly control his vices whenever they interfered 
with his interests, and who could completely 
put on the appearance of every virtue as of- 
ten as it suited his purposes, is, on the Stan- 
hopian plan, the perfect man; a man to lead 
nations. But are great abilities, complete 
without a flia^v, and p' dished without a ble- 
mish, the standard of human excellence ? 
This is certainly the staunch tjpinion of mew 
of the world; but I call on honour, virtue, 
and worth, to give the stygian doctrine a 
loud negative ! However, this must be al- 
lowed, if you abstract from man the idea of 
existence beyond the grave, then the true 
measure of human conduct is proper and im- 
proper : Virtue and vice, as dispositions of 
the heart, are, in that case, of scarcely the 
same import and value to the world at large, 
as harmony and discord in the modifications 
of sound; and a delicate sense of honour, 
like a nice ear for music, though it may some- 
times give the possessor an ecstasy unknown 
to the coarser organs of the herd, yet, consi- 
dering the harsh gratings and inharmonic 
jars, in this ill-timed state of being, it is odds 
but the individual would be as tiappy, and 
certa nly would be as much respected by the 
true judges of society, as it would ihtn stand, 
without either a good ear or a good heart. 

You must know I have just met with the 
Mirror and Lown^er for tlie first time, and 
I am quite in raj)tures with them ; I should 
be glad to have your opinion of sojne of the 
papers 1 he one 1 have just read, Lounger. 
No. Gl, has cost me more honest tears than 
any thing I have read of a long time. — 
M'Kenzie has b^^en called the A Uii^onof the 
Scots ; and. in my opinion, Addison would 
not be hurt at the comparison. If he has not 
Addison's exquisite humour, he as certainly 
outdoes him in the tender and pathetic. His 
Man of Feeling, (but lam not counsel-learn- 
ed in the laws of criticism,) I estimate as 



the first performance in its kind I ever saw 
From what book, moral, or even pious, will 
the susceptible youtig mind receive impres- 
sions more congenial to humanity and kind- 
ness, generosity and benevolence ; in short, 
more of all that ennobles the soul to herself, 
or endears her to others — than from the sim- 
ple affecting tale of poor Harley .-* 

Still, with all my admiration of M'Kenzie 's 
writings, 1 do not know if they are the fittest 
reading for a young man who is about to set 
out, as the phrase is, to make his way into 
life. Do not you think, Madam, that among 
the few favoured of Heaven in the structure 
of their minds (for such there certainly are,) 
there may be a purity, a tenderness, a dig- 
nity, an elegance of soul, which are of no 
use, nay, in some degree, absolutely disquali- 
fying for the truly important business of mak- 
ing a man's way into life. If I am not much 

mistaken, my gallant young friend, A , 

is very nmcli under these disqualifications ; 
and for the young females of a family I could 
mention, well may they excite parental soli- 
citude ; for I, a common acquaintance, or, as 
my vanity will have it, an humble friend, 
have often trembled for a turn ofmindwliich 
may render them eminently happy — or pe- 
culiarly miserable ! 

I have been manufacturing some verses 
lately ; but as I have got the most hurried 
season of excise-business over, I hope to have 
more leisure to transcribe any thing that 
may show how much 1 have the honour to 
be, Madam, yours, &c. 



No. XCVI. 
FROM MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Edinburgh, 25th Maij, 1789. 

My Dear Burns, 

I am much indebted to you for your last 
friendly, elf^gant epistle, and it shall make a 
part of the vanity of my composition, to re- 
tain your correspondence through life. It 
was remarRab e your introducing the name 
of Miss Burnet, at a time when she was in 
such ill iiealth : and I ;im sure it will grieve 
your gentle lieart. to hear of her being in the 
las' stage oi a 'vonsumption Alas ! th;i' so 
much beauty, innocence and virtue, should 
( e )>ipi)Ld in the bud Heis was the smile of 
cheerfulness — of sen.^ibility, not of allure- 
ment , and her elega.nce of manners corres- 
ponded with the purity and elevation of her 
mind. 

How does j^our friendly muse .'' I am sure 
she still retains her affection for you, and 
that vou have manv of her favours in vour 



LETTEUt!* 



137 



possesion, vvlucli 1 have not seen. I weary 
much to hear from you. 



I beseech you do not forget me. 



1 most sincerely hope all your concerns in 
life prosper, and that your roof-tree enjciys 
the blessing of good health. All your friends 
here are ^vell, among whom, a.nd'not the least, 
is yoar acquaintance Cleghorn. As for my- 
self, I am well, as far as * * * 

* will let a man be, but with these I 
am happy. 



When you meet with my very agreeable 
friend, J. Syme, give him for me a hearty 
squeeze, and bid God bless him. 

Is there any probability of your being soon 
in Edinburgh ? 



No. XCVII. 

TO DR. MOORE. 

Dumfries Excise-office, \ith July, 1790. 

Sir, 
Coming into town this morning, to at- 
tend njy duty in this office, it being collec- 
tion-day, I met with a gentleman who tells 
me he is on his way to London ; so I take 
the opportunity of writing to you^ as frank- 
ing is at present under a temporary death. 
I sjiall have some snatches of leisure through 
the day, amid our horrid business and bustle, 
and I shall improve them as well as I can ; 
but let my letter be as stupid as * * 

* * *, as miscellaneous a'^^ a. 

newspaper, as short as a hunyry grace- be- 
fore-meat, or as long as a iawpaper 'n the 
Dou£';ess cause ; as il)-spelt as couritry Johns 
billet-doux, or as unsightly a scravvl as Betty 
Byrewiucker's answer to it — I hope, consi- 
derin J circumstances, you will forgive it , 
and, as it will put you to no expense of post- 
age, I shall have the less reflection about it. 

i am sadly ungrateful in not returning you 
thanks for your most valuable present, Ze- 
luco. lu fact you are in some degree blame- 
able for my neglect. You were pleased to 
express a wish for my opinion of the work, 
which so flattered me, that nothing less would 
serve my overweening fancy, than a formal 
criticism on the book. In fact, I have grave 
ly planned a comparative view of you, Field- 
ing, Richardson, and Smollet, in your diffe- 
rent qualities and merits as novel-writers. 



Thi.s, I own, betrays my ridiculous vanity, 
and 1 may probably never bring the business 
to bear; but I ym fond of the spirit young 
Elihu shows in the hook of Job — " And I saicf, 
f will also declare my opinion." I have quite 
disfigured my copy of the book with my an- 
notations. I never take it up without at the 
same tinje taking my penoiJ, and markincr 
with asterisks, parentheses, &c. wherever I 
meet with an '<riginai thought, a nervous re- 
mark on life aad manners, a remarkably well 
turned period,, or a character sketched with 
uncommon precision. 



irit- 



Though I shall hardly think of fairly wi 
ing out my " Comparative View," I shall 
certainly trouble you with my remarks, such 
as they are. 

I have just received from my gentleman, 
that horrid summons in the book of Revela- 
tion — " That time shall be no more !" 

The little collection of sonnets have some 
charming poetry in them. If indeed I am 
indebted to the fair author for the book, and 
not, as I rather suspect, to a celebrated au- 
thor of the other sex, I should certainly have 
written to the lady, with my graieful acknow- 
ledgments, and my own ideas of the compa- 
rative excellence of her pieces. I would do 
this last not from any vanity of thinking that 
my remarks could be of much consequence 
to Mrs. Smith, but merely from my own feel- 
ing as an author, doing as I would be done by. 



No. XCVIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

8th Aug. 1790. 
Dear Madam, 

After a long day's toil, plague, and care, 
T sit down to write to you. Ask me not why 
I have delayed it so long ; It was owing to 
hurry, indolence, and fifty other things ; in 
short, to any thing- -but forgetfulness of le 
plus amiable de son sexe. By the by, you 
are indebted your best courtesy to me for 
this last compliment, as I pay ft from my 
sincere conviction of Us truth — a quality ra- 
ther rare in compliments of these grinning, 
bowing, scraping times. 

Well, I hope writing to you will ease a lit- 
tle my troubled soul. Sorely has it been 
bruised to-day ! A ci-devant friend of mine, 
and an intimate acquaintance of yours, has 
given my feelings a wound that I perceive 
will gangrene dangerously ere it cure. He 
has wounded my pride ! 



138 



LETTERS, 



No. XCIX. 
TO MR. CUNNING HAiM. 

EUisland, 8lk August, 1790. 

Forgive rac, my once dear, and ever dear 
friend, my seeming negligence. You can- 
not sit down and fancy the busy life I lead. 

1 laid down my goose feather to beat my 
brains for an apt simile, and had some 
thoughts of a country grannum at a family 
christening ; a bride on the market day be- 
fore her marriage i * * ^ * 
* * * * « * * 

a tavern-keeper at an election dinner ; &c. 
&c. — but the resemblance that hits my fan- 
cy best, is that blackguard miscreant. Satan, 
who roams about a roaring lion, seeking, 
searching whom he may devour. However, 
tossed about as I am, if I choose (and who 
would not choose) to bind down with the 
crampets of attention the brazen foundation 
of integrity, I may rear up the superstruc- 
ture of'independence, and, from its daring 
turrets, bid defiance to the storms of fate. 
And is not this a *' consummation devoutly 
to be wished ?" 

" Thy spirit, Independence, let me share ; 

Lord of the lion-heart, and eagle-eye I 
Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare, 

Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky !" 

Are not these noble verses ? They are the 
introduction ofSmolleVs Ode to Independence: 
if you have not seen the poem, I will send it 
to you. How wretched is the man that hangs 
on by the favours of the great To shrink 
from every dignity of man, at the approach 
of a lordly piece of self-consequence, who 
amid all his tinsel glitter and stately hauteur 
is but a creature, formed as thou art — and 
perhaps not so well formed as tliou art — 
came into the world a puling infant as thou 
didsl, and must go out of it as all men must, 
a naked corse.* 



No. C. 
FROM DR. BLACKLOCK. 
Edhihurgh, 1st September, 1790. 

How does my dear friend, much I languish 

to hear, 
His fortune, relations, and all that are dear ! 

* The preceding letter explahis the feelings un- 
der which this was written. The strain of indig- 
nant invective goes on some time longer in the 
style which our Bard was too apt to indulge, and 
of which the reader has alreadvseensojnuch. E. 



With love of tlie Muses so strongiy sliil 

smitten, 
I meant this epistle in verse to have written, 
But from age and infirmity indolence flows, 
And this, much I fear, will restore me to 

prose. 
Anon to my business I wish to proceed, 
Dr. Anderson guides and provokes me to 

speed, 
A man of integrity, genius, and worth. 
Who soon a performance intends to set 

forth i 
A work miscellaneous, extensive, and free, 
Which will weekly appear by the name of 

the Bee, 
Of this from himself I enclose you a plan, 
And hope you will give what assistance you 

can. ., 

Entangled with business, and haunted with 

care, 
In which more or less human nature must 

share, 
Some moments of leisure the Muses will 

claim, 
A sacrifice due to amusement and fame. 
The Bee, which sucks honey from every 

gay bloom, 
With some rays of your genius her work 

may illume, 
Whilst the flower whence her honey sponta- 

risously flows. 
As fragrantly smells, and as vig'rously grows. 

Now with kind gratulations 'tis time to 
conclude. 

And add, your promotion is here understood ; 

Thus free from the servile employ of ex- 
cise, Sir, 

We hope soon to hear you commence Super- 
visor ; 

You then more at leisure, and free from con- 
trol, 

May indulge the strong passion that reigns 
in your soul ; 

But I, feeble I, must to nature give way, 

Devoted cold death's, and longevity's prey, 

From verses, though languid, my thoughts 
must unbend. 

Though still I remain your affectionate 
friend. 

THO. BLACKLOCK. 



No. CI. 



EXTRACT OF A LETTER 
FROM MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Edinburgh, 14th October, 1790. 

I lately received a letter from our friend 

B , — what a charming fellow lost to 

society — born to great expectations — with 
superior abilities, a pure heart, and untainted 



LETTERS 



1:39 



moral*, his fate in life has bpen hard indeed, 
still I am persuaded he is happy : not like the 
gallant, the gay Lothario, but in the simpli- 
city of rural enjoyment, unmixed with regret 
at the remembrance of "the days of other 
years."* 

I saw Mr. Dunbar put under the cover of 
yoirr newspaper; Mr. Wood's poem on Thom- 
son. Tliis poem has suurgested an idea to 
me which you alone are capable to execute 
— a song adapted to each season of the year. 
The task is difficult, but the theme is charm- 
ing: should you succeed, I will undertake 
to get new music worthy of the subject. 
What a fine field for your imagination ! and 
who is there alive can draw so many beau- 
ties from nature and pastoral imagery as 
yourself.'' It is, by the way surprising, that 
there does not exist, so far as I know, a 'pro- 
per song for each season. We have songs 
on hunting, fishing, skating, and one au- 
tumnal song, Harvest Home. As your Muse 
is neither spavined nor rusty, you may mount, 
the hill of Parnassus, and return with a son- 
net in your pocket for every season For 
my suggestions, if I be rude, correct me ; if 
impertinent, chastise me ; if presuming, des- 
pise me. But if you blend all my weaknesses, 
and pound out one grain of insincerity, then 
I am not thy 

Faithful Friend, &c. 



No. CII. 



hand, in the moment of inspiration and rap 
ture ; and stride, stride — quick and quicker 
— out skipped I among the broomy banks of 
i\ith, to muse over my joy by retail. To 
keep within tho bounds of prose was mipos- 
sible. Mrs. Little's is a more elegant, but 
not a more sincere compliment, to the sweet 
little fellow, than 1, extempore, almost, pour- 
ed out to him ill the fjilowing verses. Sec 
Poems, p. 76 — On the Birth of a Posthnvwus 
Child. 



I am much fluttered by your approbation 
of my Tatii o' Shantcr, which you express in 
your former letter; though, by the by, you 
load me in that said letter with accusations 
heavy and many ; to all v/hich I plead 7iot 
guilty ! Your book is, I hear, on the road to 
reach me. As to printing of poetry, when 
you. prepare it for the press, j'ou have only to 
spell it right, and place the capital letters 
properly : as to the punctuation, the printers 
do that themselves. 

I have a copy of Tarn 0' Shanter ready to 
send you by the first opportunity : it is too 
heavy to send by post. 

I heard of Mr. Corbet lately. He, in con- 
sequence of your recommendation, is most 
zealous to serve me. Please favour me soon 
with an account of your good folks ; if Mrs. 
H3 is recovering, and the young gentleman 
doing well. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

JVovember, 1790. 

'' As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is 
good news from a far country." 

Fate has long owed mo a letter of good 
news from you/ ia return for the many ti- 
dings of sorrow which 1 have received. In 
this instance I most cordially obey the apos- 
tle — " Rejoice with them that do rejoice," — 
for me to sing for joy, is no new thing ; but 
to preach ^oY y)y as. I have done in the com- 
mencement of this epistle, is a pitch of ex- 
travagant rapture to which I never rose 
before. 

I read your letter — I literally jumped for. 
joy — How could such a mercurial creature 
as a poet lumpishly keep his seat on the re- 
ceipt of the best news from his best friend .'' 
I seized my gilt-headed Wangee rod, an in- 
stiument indispensably necessary in my left 

* The person here alluded to, is Mr. S., who 
engaged the Editor in this imdeitaking. See the 
Dedication. E. 

11 



No. CHL 
TO MR. CUNNLXGHAM. 

Ellisland, 2od January, 179L 

Many happy returns of the season to 
you, my dear friend ! As many of the good 
things of this life as is consistent with the 
usual mixture of good and evil in the cup of 
being ! 

I have just finished a poem, which you will 
receive enclosed. It is my first essay in the 
w'ay of tales. 

I have for these several months been ham- 
mering at an elegy on the amiable and ac- 
complished Miss Burjiet. I liave got, and 
can get no farther than the following frag- 
ment, on which please give me your stric- 
tures. In all kinds of poetic composition, 1 
set great store by your opinion : but m sen- 
timental verses, in the poetry of the heart, 
no Roman Catholic ever set more value on 
the infallibility of the Holy Father than I 
do on vonrs. 



140 



LETTERS. 



I mean the introductory couplets as text 
verses.* 



* * 



Let me hear from you soon. Adieu ! 



No. CIV. 

TO MR. P. HILL. 

17 tk January, 1791. 

Take these two guineas, and place them 

over against that account of yours ! 

which has gagged my mouth these five or six 
months ! I can as little write good things as 
apologies to the man I owe money to. O 
the supreme curse of making three guineas 
do the business of five ! Not all the labours 
of Hercules ; not all the Hebrews three cen- 
turies of Egyptian bondage were such an in- 
superable business, such an task ! 

Poverty ! thou half-sister of death, thou cou- 
sin-german of hell ! where shall I find force 
of execration equal to the amplitude of thy 
demerits.' Oppressed by thee, the venerable 
ancient, grown hi>ary in the practice of every 
virtue, laden with years and wretchedness, 
implores a little — little aid to support his 
existence from a stony-hearted son of Mam- 
mon, whose sun of prosperity never knew a 
cloud ; and is by him denied and insulted. 
Oppressed by thee, the man of sentiment, 
whose heart glows with ir\dependence, and 
melts with sensibility, inly pines under the 
neglect, or writhes in bitterness of soul un- 
der the contumely of arrogant, unfeeling 
wealth. Oppressed by thee, the son of ge- 
nius, whose ill-starred ambition plants him 
at the tables of the fashionable and polite, 
must see in suffering silence his remark neg- 
lected, and his person despised, while shal- 
low greatness, in his idiot attempts at wit, 
shall meet with countenance and applause. 
Nor is it only the family of worth that have 
reason to complain of thee, the children of 
folly and vice, though in common with thee 
the offspring of evil, smart equally under thy 
rod. Owing to thee, the man of unfortu- 
nate disposition and neglected education, is 
condemned as a fool for his dissipation, de- 
spised and shunned as a needy wretch, when 
his follies, as usual, bring him to want ; and 
when his unprincipled necessities drive him 
to dishonest practices, he is abhorred as a 
miscreant, and perishes by the justice of his 
country. But far otherwise is the lot of the 
man of family and fortune. His early follies 
and extravagance are spirit and fire; his 

* Immediately after this were copied the first 
six stanzas of the Elegy given in p. 80, of the 

Poem .9. 



consequent wantg are the embarrassments of 
an honest fellow ; and when, to remedy the 
matter, he has gained a le^al commission to 
plunder distant provinces, or massacre peace- 
ful nations, he returns, perhaps, laden with 
the spoils of rapine and murder ; lives wicked 

and respected, and dies a and a lord. 

Nay, worst of all, alas, for helpless woman ! 
the needy prostitute, who has shivered atthe 
corner of the street, waiting to earn the 
wages of casual prostitution, is left neglected 
and insulted, ridden down by the chariot- 
v. heels (if the coroneted Rip, hurrying on to 
the guilty assignation ; she, who without 
the same necessities to plead, riots nightly 
in the same guilty trade. 

Well ! Divines may say of it what they 
please, but execration is to the min(^ what 
phlebotomy is to the body ; the vital sluices 
of both are wonderfully relieved by their re- 
spective evacuations. 



No. CV. 



FROM A. F. TYTLER, ESQ. ^ 

Edinhurghf I2th March, 1791 . 

Dear Sir, 

Mr. Hill yesterday put into my hands a 
sheet of Grose's Antiquities, containing a 
poem of yours entitled. Tarn o' Shanter, a 
tale. The very high pleasure I have received 
from the perusal of this admirable piece, I 
feel, demands the warmest acknowledg- 
ments. Hill tells me he is to send off a 
packet for you this day ; I cannot resist, 
therefore, putting on paper what I must have 
told you in person, had 1 met with you after 
the recent perusal of your tale, which is, that 
I feel I ov.'e you a debt, which, if undis- 
charged, would reproach me with ingrati- 
tude. 1 have seldom in my life tasted of 
higher enjoyment from any work of genius, 
than I have received from this composition : 
and I am much mistaken, if this poem alone, 
had you never written another syllable, would 
not have been sufficient to have transmitted 
your name down to posterity with high repu- 
tation. In the introductory part, where you 
paint the character of your hero, and exhibit 
him at the alehouse ingle, with his tippling 
cronies, you have delineated nature with a 
humour and naivete that would do honour to 
Matthew Prior ; but when you describe the 
infernal orgies of the witches' sabbath, and 
the hellish scenery in which they are exhi- 
bited, you display a power of imagination 
that Shakspeare himself could not have ex- 
ceeded. I know not that I have ever met 
with a picture of more horrible fancy than 
the following : 



LETTERS. 



141 



" Coffins stood round like open presses, 
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; 
And by some devilish cantrip slight, 
Each in his cauld hand held a light." 

But when I came to the succeeding lines, my 
blood ra-n cold within me : 

" A knife, a father's throat had mangled, 
Whom his ain son of life bereft ; 
2Vie gray hairs yet stack to the heft.'''' 

And here, after the two following lines, 
•' Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu'," &c. the 
descriptive part might perhaps have been 
better closed, than the four lines which suc- 
ceed, which, though good in themselves, yet 
as they derive all their merit from the satire 
which they contain, are here rather misplaced 
among the circumstances of pure horror.* 
The initiation of the young witch, is most 
liappily described — the effect of her charms 
exhibited in the dance on Satan himself — 
the apostrophe, " Ah ! little thought thy re- 
verend graunie !" — thetransportof Tam, who 
forgets his situation, and enters completely 
into the spirit of the scene, are all features ot 
hifjh merit in this excellent composition. The 
only fault that it possesses, is, that the wind- 
ing up, or conclusion of the story, is not 
commensurate to the interest which is ex- 
cited by the descriptive and characteristic 
painting of the preceding parts. The pre- 
paration is fine, but the result is not ade- 
quate. But for this, perhaps, you have a good 
apology — you stick to the popular tale. 

And now that I have got out my mind and 
feel a little relieved of the weight of that debt 
I owed you, let me end this desultory scroll, 
by an advice: you have proved your talent 
for a species of composition in which but a 
very few of our own poets iiave succeeded — 
go on — write more tales in the same style — 
)'0U will eclipse Prior and La Fontaine ; for 
with equal wit, equal power of numbers, and 
equal naiv'tc of expression, you have a bolder 
and more vigorous imagination. 

I am, dear Sir, with much esteem, 

Yours, &c. 



No. CVI. 

TO A. F. TYTLER, ESQ. 

Sir, 

Nothing less than the unfortunate acci- 
dent 1 have met with could have prev^ited 
my grateful acknowledgments for your let- 
ter. His own favourite poem, and that an 

* Our bard profited by Mr. Tytler's criticisms, 
and expunged the four lines arcordinglv. 



essay in a walk of the muses entirely new' 
to him, where consequently his hopes and 
fears were on the most anxious alarm for his 
success in the attempt : to have that poem 
so much applauded by one of the first judges, 
was the most delicious vibration that ever 
trilled along the heart-strings of a poor poet. 
However, Providence, to keep up the proper 
proportion of evil with the good, which it 
seems is necessary in this sublunary state, 
thought proper to check my exultation by a 
very serious misfortune. A day or two after 
1 received your letter, my horse came down 
with me and broke my right arm. As this 
is the first service my arm has done me since 
its disaster, I find myself unable to do more 
than just in general terms to thank you for 
this additional instance of your patronage 
and friendship As to the faults you detected 
in the piece, they are truly there : one of 
them, the hit at the lawyer and priest, I 
shall cut out : as to the falling off in the ca- 
tastrophe, for the reason you justly adduce, 
it cannot easily be remedied. Your appro 
bation, Sir, has given me such additional spi- 
rits to persevere in this species of poetic 
composition, that I am already revolvino- 
two or three stories in my fancy. If I can 
bring these floating ideas to bear any kind 
of embodied form, it will give me an addi- 
tional opportunity of assuring you how much 
I have the honour to be, &c. 



No. CVK. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 7th February, 1791. 

When I tell you, Madam, that by a fall, 
not from my horse, but with my horse, I have 
been a cripple some time, and that this is the 
first day my arm and hand have been able to 
serve me in writing, you will allow that it is 
too good an apology for my seemingly un- 
grateful silence. 1 am now getting better, 
and am able to rhyme a little, which implies 
some tolerable ease ; as I cannot think that 
the most poetic genius is able to compose on 
the rack. 

I do not remember if eVer I mentioned to 
you my having an idea of composing an ele- 
gy on the late Miss Burnet of Monboddo. I 
had the lion'>ur of being pretty well acquaint- 
ed with her, and have seldom felt so much 
at the loss of an acquaintance, as when I heard 
that so amiable uid iiccomplished a piece 
of God's works was no more. J have as yet 
gone no fartlier than the foiiowing fragment, 
of vvhich please let me have your opiiiion. — 
You know that elegy is a subject so much 
exhausted, that any new idea on the business 
is not to be expected ; 'tis well if we can 
place an old idea in a new light. How far 



142 



LETTEUS. 



I have succeeded as to this last, you will judge 
from what follows : — 

( Here followed tlic Elegy, as given in the 
Poems, p. 8'.', with this additional verse:) 

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee 
That heart now sunk a prey to grief anr 
care ! 

So deck'd the woodbine sweet yoi» aged tree 
So from it ravish'd, leaves it bleak and bare. 



I have proceeded no further. 

Your kind letter, with your kind remem- 
brance of your godson, came safe. This last, 
Madam, is scarcely what my pride can bear. 
As to the little fellow, he is, partiality apart, 
the finest boy 1 have of a long time seen. He 
is now seventeen months old, has the small- 
pox and measles over, has cut several teeth, 
and yet never had a grain of doctor's drugs 
in his bowels. 

I am truly happy to hear that the ^'little 
floweret" is bloominof so fresh and fair, and 
that the " mother pfant" is rather recover- 
ing her drooping head Soon and well may 
her '' cruel wounds" be healed ! 1 have writ- 
ten thus far with a good deal of difficuhy. 
When I get a little abler, you shall hear far- 
ther from, 

Madam, yours, &c. 



No. CVIII. 

TO LADY W. M. CONSTABLE,' 

.Acknowledging a present of a valualle Snvff 
box, with a fine picture of Mary Queen of 
Scots, on the Lid. 

My Lady, 

Nothing less than the unlucky accident 
of having lately broken niy right arm, could 
have prevented me, the moment I received 
your Ladyship's elegant present by Mrs. 
Miller, from returning you my warmest and 
most grateful acknowledgments. I assure 
your Ladyship I shall set it apart ; the sym- 
bols of religion shall only be more sacred. 
In the moment of poetic composition, the 
box shall be my inspiring genius. When I 
would breathe the comprehensive wish of 
benevolence for the happiness of others, I 
shall recollect your Ladyship ; when I vvould 
interest my fancy in the distresses incident 
to humanity, I shall remember the unfortu- 
nate Marv. 



No. CIX. 

TO MRS. GRAHAM, 

of fintry. 

Madam, 

Whether it is that the story of our Mary, 
Queen of Scots, has a peculiar effect on the 
feelings of a poet, or whether 1 have in the 
enclosed ballad succeeded beyond my usual 
poetic success, 1 know not ; but it has plefised 
uie beyond any effort of rny muse for a good 
while past; on that account I enclose it par- 
ticularly to you. It is true, the purity of my 
motives may be suspected. I am already 

deeply indebted to Mr. G 's goodness; 

and what, in the usual ways of men, is of in- 
finitely greater impurtance, Mr. G. can do 
me service of the utmost importance in time 
to come. I was born a poor dog ; and how- 
ever I may occasionally pick a better bone 
than I used to do, I know I must live and die 
poor; but I will indulge the flattering faith 
that my poetry will considerably outlive my 
poverty ; and, without any fustian affectation 
of spirit, I can promise and affirm, that it 
must be no ordinary craving of the latter 
shall ever make me do any thing injurious to 
the honest fame of the former. Whatever 
may be my failings, for failings are a part of 
human nature, may they ever be those of a 
generous heart and an independent mind ! 
It is no fault of mine that I was born to de- 
pendence ; nor is it Mr. G 's chiefest 

praise that he can command influence ; but 
it is his merit to bestow, not only with the 
kindness of a brother, but with the politeness 
of a gentleman ; and I trust it shall be mine 
to receive with thankfulness, and remember 
with undiminished gratitude. 



No. ex. 



FROM THE REV. G. BAIRD. 



London, Sth February, 1791. 



Sir, 



I trouble you with this letter to inform 
you that I am in hopes of being able very 
soon to bring to the press, a new edition (long 
since talked of) of Michael Bruce's Poems. 
The profits of the edition are to go to his 
mother — a woman of eighty years of age — 
poor and helpless. The poems are to be pub- 
lished by subscription ; and it may be possi- 
ble, I think, to make out a 2s. 6d. or 3s. vo- 
lume, with the assistance of a few hitherto 
unpublished verses, which I have got from 
the mother of the poet. 

But the design I have in view in writing 
to you, is not merely fo inform you of these 



LETTERS. 



143 



facts, it is to solicit the aid of your name and ! 
pert, in support of the scheme. The reputa- i 
tion of Bruce is already high with every rea- 
der of classical taste, and I shall be anxious 
to guard against tarnishing his character, by 
allowing any new poems to appear that may 
lower it For this purpose the MSS. I am 
in possession .f, have been sui.niitted to the 
revision of some whose critical talents I can 
trust to, and I mean still to submit them to 
others. 

May I beg to know, therefore, if you will 
take the trouble of perusing the MSS. — oi 
giving your opinion, and suggesting what 
curtailments, alterations, or amendments, oc- 
cur to you as advisable ? And will you allow 
us to let it be known, that a few lines by you 
will be added to the volume ? 

I know. the extent of this request. It is 
bold to make it. But I have this consolation, 
that though you see it proper to refuse it, you 
will not blame me for having made it ; you 
will see my apology in the motive. 

May I just add, that Michael Bruce is one 
in whose company from his past appearance, 
you would not, I am convinced, blush to be 
found; and as I would submit ev^ry line of 
his that should now be published, to your 
own criticisms, you would be assured that 
nothinor derogatory, either to him or you. 
would be admitted in that appearance he 
may make in future. 

You have already paid an honourable tri- 
bute to kindred genius, in Fer^iusson; I 
fondly hope that the mother of Bruce will 
experience your patronage, 

I wish to have the subscription-papers cir- 
culated by the 14th of March, Bruce's birth- 
day, which 1 understand some friends in 
Scotland talk this year of observing — at that 
time it will be resolved, I imagine, to place 
a plain humble stone over his grave. This 
at least I trust you will agree to do — to fur- 
nish, m a few couplets, an inscription for it. 

On these points may I solicit an answer as 
early as possible .-' a short delay might disap- 
point us in procuring that relief to the mo- 
ther, which is the object of the whole. 

You will be pleased to address for me un- 
der cover to the Duke of Atiiule, Londun. 



P.S. Have you ever seen an engraving 
published here some time ago, from otie of 
your poems, " thou pale Orb ?" If you 
have not. I shall have the pleasure of sending 
it to you. 



No. CXI. 
TO THE REV. G. BAIRD. 

In answer to theforegoino-. 

Why did you, my dear Sir, write to me 
in such a hesitating style, on the business of 
poor Bruce ? Don't I know, and have I not 
felt the many ills, the peculiar ills, that 
poetic flesh is heir lo ? You shall have your 
choice <if all the unpublished poems I have; 
and had your letter had my direction, so as 
to have reached me sooner (it only came to 
my hand this moment) I should have direct- 
ly put you out of suspense on the subject, i 
only ask that some prefatory advertisement 
in the book, as well as the subscription-bills 
may bear, that the publication is solely for 
the benefit of Bruce's mother. I would not 
put it in the power of ignorance to surmise, 
or malice to insinuate, that I clubbed a share 
in the work for mercenary motives. Nor 
need you give me credit for any remarkable 
generosity in my part of the business. I have 
such a h'St of peccadilloes, failings, follies, 
and backslidings, (any body but myself might 
perhaps give some of them a worse appella- 
tion), that by way of some balance, however 
trifling, in the account, I am fain to do any 
good that occurs in my very limited power 
to a fellow-creature, just for the selfish pur- 
p()se of clearing a little the vista of retro- 
spection. 



No. CXII. 
TO DR. MOORE. 

Ellisland, 28th February, 1791. 

I do not know, Sir, whether you are a 
subscriber to Grose's Antiquities of Scotland. 
If you are, the enclosed poem will not be al- 
together new to you. Captain Grose did me 
the favour to send me a dozen copies of the 
proof-sheet, of which this is one. Should 
you have read the piece before, still this will 
answer the principal end I have in view ; it 
will give me another opportunity of thanking 
you for all your goodness to the rustic bard; 
and also of showing you, that the abilities 
you have been pleased to commend and pa- 
tronise, are still employed in the way you 
wish. 

The Elegy on Captain Henderson is a tri- 
bute to the memory of a man I loved much. 
Poets have in this the same advantages as 
Roman Catholics; they can be of service to 
their friends after they have passed that 
bourn where all other kindness ceases to be 



144 



LETTERS. 



of any avail. Whether, after all, eitlier the 
one or the other be of any real service to 
the dead, is, 1 fear, very problematical : but 
1 am sure they are highly gratifying to the 
living: and, as a very orthodox text, I for- 
get where in Scripture, says, " vvhatsover is 
not of faith is sin;" so say I, whatsoever is 
not detrimental to society, and is of positive 
enjoyment, is of God, the giver of all good 
things, and ought to be received and en- 
joyed by his creatures with thankful delight. 
As almost all my religious tenets originate 
from my heart, 'l am wonderfully pleased 
with the idea, that [ can still keep up a ten 
der intercourse with the dearly beloved 
friend, or still more dearly beloved mistress, 
who is gone to the world of spirits. 

The ballad on Queen Mary was begun 
while I was busy with Percy's Reliques of 
English Poetry. By the way, how much is 
every honest heart, which has a tincture of 
Caledonian prejudice, obliged to you for your 
glorious story of Buchanan and Targe ! — 
'Twas an unequivocal proof of your loyal 
gallantry of soul, giving Targe the victory. 
I should have been mortified to the grous.d 
if you had not. 



I have just read over, once more of many 
times, your Zeluco. I marked with my pen- 
cil, as I went along, every passage that 
pleased me particularly above the rest ; and 
one, or two T think, which, with humble de- 
ference, I am disposed to think unequal to 
the merits of the book. I have sometimes 
thought to transcribe these marked passage s, 
or at least so much of them as to point where 
they are, and send them to you. Original 
strokes that strongly depict the human heart, 
is your and Fielding's province, beyond any 
other novelist I have ever perused. Richard- 
son indeed might perhaps be excepted ; but 
unhappily, his dramatis persona are beings 
of some other world ; and however they may 
captivate the inexperienced romantic fancy 
of a boy or girl, they will ever, in proportion 
as we have made human nature our study, 
dissatisfy our riper minds. 

As to my private concerns, I am going on 
a mighty tax-gatherer before the Lord, and 
have lately had the interest to get myself 
ranked on the list of Excise as a supervisor. 
I am not yet employed as such, but in a few 
years I shall fall into the file of supervisor- 
ship by seniority. I have had an immense 
loss in the death of the Earl of Gler.cairn, 
the patron from whom all my fame and good 
fortune took its rise. Independent of my 
grateful attachment to him, which was in- 
deed so strong that it pervaded my very soul, 
and was entwined with the thread of my ex- 
istence ; so soon as the prince's friends had 
got in, (and every dog, you know, has his 



day,) my 'getting forward in the Excise would 
have been an easier business than otherwise 
it will be. Though this was a consumma- 
tion devoutly to be wished, yet, thank Hea- 
ven, I can live and rhyme as I am ; and as 
to my boys, poor little fellows ! if I can- 
not place them on as high an elevation in 
life as 1 could wish, I shall, if I am favoured 
with so much of the Disposer of Events as 
to see that period, fix them on as broad and 
independent a basis as possible Among 4he 
m.any wise adages which have been trea- 
sured up by our Scottish ancestors, this is 
one of the best — Better he the head o\ the 
commonalty, than the tail o' the gentry. 

But I am got on a subject, which, how- 
ever interesting tome, is no manner of con- 
sequence to you ; so I shall give you a short 
poem on the other page, and close this With 
assuring you how sincerely I have the ho- 
nour to bo, yours, »fec. 



Written on the blank leaf of a book which 
I presented to a very young lady whom I had 
formerly characterized under the denomina- 
tion of The Rosebud. See Poems, p. 73. 



No. CXIII. 
FROM DR. MOORE. 

London, 29th March, 1^91. 

. De^r Sir, 

Your letter of the 28th of February I re- 
ceived only two days ago, and this day I had 
the pleasure of waiting on the Rev. Mr. 
Baird, at the Duke of Athole's, who had been 
so obliging to transmit it to me, with the 
printed verses on Jilloa Church, the Elegy 
on Captain Henderson, and the Epitaph. 
There are many poetical beauties in the for- 
mer ; what I particularly admire are the 
three striking similes from — 

" Or like the snow-falls in the river,"' 

and the eight lines which begin with 

" By this time he ras cross the ford," 

so exquisitely expressive of the superstitious 
impressions of the country. And the twen- 
ty-two lines from 

" Cofiins stood round like open presses." 

which, in my opinion, are equal to the in- 
! gredients of Shakspeare's cauldron in Mac- 
\ hdh. 



LET'i'ERS. 



145 



As tor the Elcgij, the chief merit of it con- 
sists in the very graphical description of tlie 
objects belonging to the country in which the 
poet writes, and which none but a Scottish 
poet could have described, and none but a 
real poet, and a close observer of Nature, 
could have so described. 



There is something original, and to me won- 
derfully pleasing, in the Epitaph. . 

♦. 

I remember you once hinted before, what 
you repeat in your last, that you had made 
some remarks on Zehuco on the margin. I 
' should be very glad to see them, and regret 
you did not send them before the last edi- 
tion, which is just published. Pray tran- 
scribe them for me ; I smcerely value your 
opinion very highly, and pray do not sup- 
press one of those in which you censure the 
sentiment or expression. Trust me it will 
break no squares between us — I am not akin 
to the bishop of Grenada. 

I must now mention what has;,been on my 
mind for some time : I cannot help thinking 
you imprudent, in scattering abroad so many 
copies of your verses. It is most natural to 
give a few to confidential friends, particular- 
ly to those who are connected with the sub- 
ject, or who are perhaps themselves the sub- 
ject; but this ought to be done under pro- 
mise not to give other copies. Of the poem 
you sent me on Queen Mary, I refused every 
solicitation for copies, but I lately saw it in a 
newspaper. My motive for cautioning you 
on this subject, is, that I wish to engage you 
to collect all your fugitive pieces, not alrea- 
dy printed ; and, after they have been re- 
considered, and polished to the utmost of 
your power, I would have you publish them 
by another subscription : in promoting of 
which I will exert myself with pleasure. 

In your future compositions 1 wish you 
would use the modern English. You have 
shown your powers in Scottish suffidiently. 
Although in certain subjects it gives addi- 
tional zest to the humour, yet it is lost to the 
English ; and why should you write only for 
a part of the island, when you can command 
the admiration of the whole ! 

If you chance to write to my friend Mrs 
Dunlop of Dunlop, I beg to be affectionately 
remembered to her. She must not judge of 
the warmth of my sentiments respecting her 
by the number of my letters ; I hardly ever 
write a line but <n business; and I do not 
know that I should have scribbled all this to 
you, but for the business part, that is to in- 
stigate you to a new publication ; and to tell 
you, that when you have a sufficient number 
to make a volume, you should set your 
friends on getting subscriptions. I wish I 



could have a few hours" conversation with 
you — I have many things to say which I can- 
not write. If ever I go to Scotland, I will 
let you know, that you may meet me at your 
own house, or my friend Mrs. Hamilton, or 
both. 

Adieu, my dear Sir, &c. 



No. CXIV. 

TO THE REV. ARCH. ALISON. 

Ellisland, near Dumfries, Ath Feb. 1791. 

Sir, 
You must, by this time,* have set me 
down as one of the most ungrateful of men. 
You did me the honour to present me with a 
book which does honour to science and the 
intellectual powers of man, and I have not 
even so much as acknowledged the receipt of 
it. The fact is, you yourself are to blame 
for it. Flattered as I was by your telling me 
that you wished to have my opinion of the 
work, the old spiritual enemy of mankind, 
who knows well that vanity is one of the sins 
that most easily beset me, put it into my 
head to ponder over the performance with 
the look-out of a critic, and to draw up, for- 
sooth, a deep learned digest of strictures, on 
a composition, of which, in fact, until I read 
the book, 1 did not even know the first prin- 
ciples. I own. Sir, that at the first glance, 
several of your propositions startled me as 
paradoxical. That the martial clangor of a 
trumpet had something in it vastly more 
grand, heroic, and sublime, than the twingle- 
t wangle of a Jew's harp; that the delicate 
flexure of a rose twig, when the half-blown 
flower is heavy with the tears of the dawn, 
was. infinitely more beautiful and elegant 
than the upright stub of a burdock ; and that 
from something innate and independent of 
all association of ideas ; — these I had set 
down as irrefragable, orthodox truths, until 
perusing your book, shook my faith. In 
short, Sir except Euclid's Elements of Geo- 
metry, whici 1 made a shift to unravel by 
my father's fire-side, in the winter evenings 
of the first season I held the plough, 1 never 
read a book which gave me such a quantum 
of information, and added so much to iny 
stock of ideas, as your"* Essays on the Prin- 
ciples of TasteJ" One thing, Sir, you must 
forgive my mentioning as an uncommon me- 
rit in the work, I mean the language. To 
clothe abstract philosophy in elegance of 
style, sounds something like a contradiction 
in terms ; but you have convinced me that 
they are quite compatible. 

I enclose you some poetic bagatelles of my 
late composition. The one in print is my 
first essay in the way of telling a tale. 

I am, Sir, &c. 



16 



LETTBRS. 



No. CXV. 

Extract of a Letter. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

\2th March, 1791. 

If the foregoing piece be worth your 
strictures, let me. have them. For my own 
part, a thing that I have just composed al- 
ways appears through a double portion of 
tliat partial medium in which an author will 
ever view his ovi^n works. I believe, in ge- 
neral, novelty has something in it that ine- 
briates the fanpy, and not unfrequently dissi- 
pates and fumes away like other intoxica- 
tion, and leaves the poor pa,it;nt, as usual, 
with an aching heart. A strikmg instance 
of this might be adduced in ihe revolution of 
many a hymeneal honey-moon. But lest I 
sink into stupid prose, and so sacrilegiously 
intrude on the office of my parish priest, I 
shall fill up the page in my own way, and 
give you another song of my late composi- 
tion, which will appear, perhaps, in John- 
son's work, as well as the former. 

You must know a beautiful Jacobite air, 
There'll never he peace till Jamie covies 
havie. When political combustion ceases to 
be the object of princes and patriots, it then, 
you know, becomes the lawful prey of histo- 
rians and poets." 



If you like the air, and if the stanzas hit 
your fancy, you cannot imagine, my dear 
friend, how much you would oblige me, if, 
by the charms of your delightful voice, you 
would give my honest effusion to " the me- 
mory of joys that are past 1" to the few 
friends whom you indulge in that pleasure. 
But I have scribbled on 'till J hear the clock 
has intimated the near approach of 

'« That hour o' night's black arch the key-stane." 

So, good night to you: sound be your sleep, 
and delectable your dreams ! apropos, how 
do you like this thought in a ballad I have 
just now on the tapis ? 

I look to the west when I gae to rest, 
That happy my dreams and my slumbers maybe ; 

For far in the west is he I lo'e best, 
The lad that is dear to my babie and me ! 



Good night, once more, and God bless 
you. 



* Here followed a copy of the Song primed in 
the Poems. " By yon castle wa'," &c. 



No. CXVI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, Uth April, 1T91, 

I am once more able, my honoured 
friend, to return you, with my own hand, 
thanks for the many instances of your friend- 
ship jind particularly for your kind anxiety 
in this last disaster that my evil genius had 
in store for me. However, life is chequered 
— joy and sorrow — for on Saturday morning 
last, Mrs. Burns made me a present of a fine 
boy, rather stouter, but not so handsome as 
your godson was at his time of life. Indeed 
I look on your little namesake to be my chef 
d'cEuvre in that species of manufactur , as I 
look on Tarn o' Shanter to be my standard 
performance in the poetical line. 'Tis true, 
bi'th the one and the other discover a spice 
of roguish waggery that might, perhaps, be 
as well spared : but then they also show, in 
my opinion, aforceof genius, and a finishing 
polish that I di'spair of ever excelling. Mrs. 
Buros is getting stout again, and laid as ius- 
tily about her to-day at breakfast, as a reaper 
from the co'rn ndge. That is the peculiar 
privilege and blessing of our hale sprightly 
damsels, that are bred among the hay and 
heather. We cannot hope for that highly 
polished mind, that charming delicacy of 
soul, which is tbund among th.e female world 
in the more elevated stations' of life, and 
which is certainly by far the most bewitch- 
ing charm in the famous cesiusol Venus. 
It is, indeed, such an inestimable treasure, 
that where it can be had in its native heaA'en- 
ly purity, unstained by some one or other of 
the many shades of affectation, and unalloy- 
ed by some one or other of the many species 
of caprice, 1 declare to Heaven, I should 
think it cheaply purchased ai the expense of 
every other earthly good ! But as this an- 
gelic creature is, I am afraid, extremely rare 
in any station and rank of liie, and totally 
denied to such an humble one as mine : we 
meaner mortals must put up v.ith the next 
rank of female excellence — as fine a figure 
and face we can produce as any rank of life 
whatever; rustic native grace; unaffected 
modesty, and unsullied purity ; nature's mo- 
ther wit, and the rudiments of taste ; a sim- 
plicity of soul, unsuspicious of, because un- 
acquainted with the crooked ways of a sel- 
fish, interested, disingenuous world ; and the 
dearest charm of all the rest, a yielding 
sweetness of disposition, and a generous 
warmth of heart, grateful for love on our 
part, and ardently glowing with a more than 
equal return; those, with a healthy frame, a 
sound, vigorous constitution, which your 
higher ranks can scarcely ever hope to en- 
joy, are the charms of lovely woman in my 
humble walk of life. 

This is the greatest effort my broken arm 



LETTERS. 



147 



has yet made. Do let me hear, by the first 
post, how cher petit Monsieur comes on with 
his small pox. May Almighty goodness pre- 
serve and restore him ! 



No. CXVII. 



TO 



Dear Sir, 

I am exceedingly to blame in not writ- 
ing you long ago ; but the truth is, that I am 
the most indolent of all human beings: and 
when I matriculate in the herald's office, I 
intend that my supporters shall be two 
sloths, my crest a slowworm, and the motto, 
" Deil tak the foremost !" So much by way 
of apology for not thanking you sooner for 
your kind execution of my commission. 

I would have sent you the poem; but 
somehow or other it found its way into the 
public papers, where you must have seen it. 



I am ever, dear Sir, yours sincerely, 
ROBERT BURNS. 



No. CXVIII. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

llthJune, 1791. 

Let me interest you, my dear Cunning- 
ham, in behalf of the gentleman who waits 
on you with this. He is a Mr Clarke, of 
Moffat, principal school-master there, and 
is at present suffering severely under the 

* * * * of one or two pow- 
erful individuals of his employers. He is 
accused of harshness to * * * * 
that were placed under his care. God help 
the teacher, if a man of sensibility and ge- 
nius, and such as my friend Clarke, when a 
booby father presents him with his booby 
son, and insists on lighting up the rays of 
science in a fellow's head whose scull is im- 
pervious and inaccessible by any other way 
than a positive fracture with a cudg^el : a fel- 
low whom, in fact, it savours of impiety to 
attempt making a scholar of, as he has been 
marked a blockhead in the book of fate, at 
the Almighty fiat of his Creator. 

The patrons of Moffat school are the mi- 
nisters, mgaistrates, and town-council of 
Edinburgh ; and as the business conies no^^ 
before them, let me beg my dearest friend to 
do every thing in his power to serve the in- 
lerests of a man of genius and worth, and a 

42 



man whom I particularly respect and es- 
teem. You know some good fellows among 
the magistracy and council, « * # 
'***** but particu- 
larly you have much to say with a reverend 
gentleman, to whom you have the honour of 
being very nearly related, and whom this 
country and age have had the honour to pro- 
duce. I need not name the historian of 
Charles V.* I tell him, through the medium 
of his nephew's influence, that Mr. Clarke is 
a gentleman who will not disgrace even his 
patronage. I know the merits of the cause 
thoroughly, and say it, that my friend is fall- 
ing a sacrifice to prejudiced io-norance, and 
*. God help the chil- 
dren of dependence ! Hated and persecuted 
by their enemies, and too often, alas ! almost 
unexceptionably, received by their friends 
with disrespect and reproach, under the thin 
disguise of cold civility and humiliating ad- 
vice. O ! to be a sturdy savage, stalking in 
the pride of his independence, amid the so- 
litary wilds of his deserts ; rather than in ci- 
vilized life ; helplessly to tremble for a sub- 
sistence, precarious as the caprice of a fel- 
low-creature ! Every man has his virtues, 
and no man is without his failings ; and 
curse on that privileged plain-dealing of 
friendship, which in the hour of my cala- 
mity cannot reach forth the helping hand, 
without at the same time pointing out those 
failings, and apportioning them their share 
in procuring my present distress. My friends, 
for such the world calls ye, and such ye think 
yourselves to be, pass by my virtues if you 
please, but do also spare my follies; the first 
will witness in my breast for themselves, and 
the last will give pain enough to the ingenu- 
ous mind without you. And since deviating 
more or less from the paths of propriety and 
rectitude must be incident to human nature, 
do thou. Fortune, put it in my power, always 
from myself, and of myself, to bear the con- 
sequences of those errors ! I do not want to 
be independent that I may sin, but I want to 
be independent in my sinning. 

To return, in this rambling letter, to the 
subject 1 set out with, let me recommend my 
friend, Mr. Clarke, to your acquaintance and 
good offices ; his worth entitles him to the 
one, and his gratitude will merit the other. 
I long much to hear from you — Adieu I 



No. CXIX. 
FROM THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 
Dryhurgh-Mbey, 17tk June, 1791. 

Lord Buclian has the pleasure to invite 
Mr. Burns to make one at the coronation of 



* Dr. Kobertsoo 
ham. E. 



was unr;le to Mr. Cunning- 



148 



LETTERS. 



the bust of Thomson, on Edman Hill, on the 
22d Sept. ; for wlrich day, perhaps, his muse 
may inspire an ode suited to the occasion. 
Suppose Mr. Burns should, leaving the Nith, 
go across the country, and meet the Tweed 
at the nearest point from his farm — and, 
wandering along the pastoral banks of Thom- 
son's pure parent stream, catch inspiration 
on the devious walk, till he finds Lord Bu- 
chan sitting on the ruins of Dryburgh. — 
There the commendator will give him a 
liearty welcome, and try to light his lamp at 
the i)ure flame of native genius, upon the 
altar of C/aledonian virtue. This poetical 
perambulation of the Tweed, is a thought of 
the late Sir Gilbert Elliot's, and of Lord 
Minto's, followed out by his accomplished 
grandson, the present Sir Gilbert, who hav- 
ing been with Lord Buchan lately, the pro- 
ject v/as renewed, and will, they hope, be 
executed in the manner proposed. 



No. CXX. 
TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

My Lord, 

Language sinks under the ardour of my 
feelings when I would thank your Lordship 
for the honour you have done me in inviting 
ine to make one at the coronation of the bust 
of Thomson. In my first enthusiasm in read- 
ing the card you did me the honour to write 
to me, I overlooked every obstacle, and de- 
termined to go ; but I fear it will not be in 
my power. A week or two's absence, in the 
very middle of my harvest, is what I much 
doubt I dare not venture on. 

Your Lordship hints at an ode for the oc- 
casion ; but who could write after Collins .'' 
I read over his verses to the memory of 
Thomson, and despaired. — I got, indeed, to 
the length of three or four stanzas, in the 
way of address to the shade of the bard, on 
croVning his bust. I shall trouble your 
Lordship with the subjoined copy of them, 
which, I am afraid, will be but too convinc- 
ing a proof how unequal I am to the task. 
However, it affords me an opportunity of 
approaching your Lordship, and declaring 
how sincerely and gratefully I have the ho- 
nour to be, i&c. 



No. CXXL 
FROM THE SAME. 
Dryburgh Mbey, I6th September, 179L 

Sir, 
Your address to the shade of Thomson 
Ras been well received by the public ; and 



though I should disapprove of your allowing 
Pegasus to ride with you off the field of your 
honourable and useful profession, yet I can- 
not resist an impulse which I feel at this 
moment to suggest to your Muse, Harvest 
Home, as an excellent subject for her grate- 
ful song, in which the peculiar aspect and 
manners of our country might furnish an ex- 
cellent portrait and landscape of Scotland, 
for the employment of happy moments of 
leisure and recess from your more important 
occupations. 

Your Halloiceen and Saturday JVight, will 
remain to distant posterity as interesting pic- 
tures of rural innocence and happiness in 
your native country, and were happily writ- 
ten in the dialect of the people ; but Harvest 
Home, being suited to descriptive poetry, ex- 
cept, where colloquial, may escape the dis- 
guise of a dialect which admits of no ele- 
gance or dignity of expression. Without 
the assistance of any god or goddess, and 
without the invocation of any foreign muse, 
you may convey in epistolary form the de- 
scription of a scene so gladdening and pic- 
turesque, with all the concomitant local po- 
sition, landscape, and costume ; contrasting 
the peace, improvement, and happiness of 
the borders of the once hostile nations of Bri- 
tain, with their former oppression and mi- 
sery ; and showing, in lively and beautiful 
colours, the beauties and joys of a rural life. 
And as the unvitiated heart is naturally dis- 
posed to overflow with gratitude in the mo- 
ment of prosperity, such a subject would fur- 
nish you with aa amiable opportunity of per- 
petuating the names of Glencairn, Miller, 
and your other eminent benefactors ; which, 
from what I know of youi spirit, and have 
seen of your poems and letters, will not de- 
viate from the chastity of praise that is so 
uniformly united to true taste and genius. 

I am, Sir, &c. 



No. cxxn. 

TO LADY E. CUNNINGHAM. 

My Lady, 

I would, as usual, have availed myself 
of the privilege your goodness has allowed 
me, of sending you any thing I compose in 
my poetical way ; but as I had resolved, so 
soon as the shock of my irreparable loss 
would allow me, to pay a tribute to my late 
benefactor, 1 determined to make that the 
first piece I should do myself the honour of 
sending you. Had the wing of my fancy 
been equal to the ardour of my heart, the 
enclosed had been much more worthy your 
perusal : as it is, I beg leave to lay it at your 
Ladyship's feet. As all the world knows my 



LETTERS. 



119 



obligations to the Earl of Glencairn, I would 
wish to show as openly that my heart glows, 
and shall ever glow with the most grateful 
sense and remembrance of liis Lordship's 
goodness. The sables 1 did myself the ho- 
nour to wear to his Lordship's memory, were 
not the " mockery of wo." Nor shall my 
gratitude perish with me ! — If, among my 
children, I shall have a son that has a heart, 
he shall hand it down to his child as a family 
honour, and a family debt, that my dearest 
existence I owe to the noble house of Glen- 
cairn ! 

I was about to say, my Lady, that if you 
think the poem may venture to see the light, 
I would, in some way or other, give it to the 
world.* 



No. CXXIIL 
TO MR. AINSLIE. 

My Dear Ainslie, 

Can you minister to a mind diseased ? 
Can you, amid the horrors of penitence, re- 
gret, remorse, head-ache, nausea, and all the 
rest of the d— — d hounds of hell, that beset 
a poor wretch who has been guilty of the sin 
of drunkenness — can you speak peace to a 
troubled soul .'' 

Miserable perdu that I am ! I have tried 
every thing that used to amuse me, but in 
vain : here must I sit a monument of the ven- 
geance laid up in store for the wicked, slow- 
ly counting every check of the clock as it 
slowly — slowly, numbers over these lazy 

scoundrels of hours, who, d n them, are 

ranked up before me, every one at his neigh- 
bour's backside, and everyone with a burden 
of anguish on his back, to pour on my devoted 
head — and there is none to pity me. My 
wife scolds me ! my business torments me, 
and my sins come staring me in the face, 
every one telling a more bitter tale than his 
fellow.— When I tell you even * . * * 
has lost it power to please, you will_guess 
something of my hell within, and ail around 
me. — I bo nan EUbanks and ELibracs, bnf the 
stanzas fell unenjoyed and unfinished from 
my listle.^^ tongue ; at last I luckily thought 
of reading over Mn old letter of your.s that lay 
by me in my book-case, and 1 felt something, 
for the first time since I opened my eyes, of 
pleasurable existence. — Well — I begin to 
breathe a little since I began to write you. 
How are you.-* and what are you doing.? 
How goes Law ? .'Jpropos^ for connexion's 

* The poem enclosed is published, — See " Tlie 
Lament fur James, Elarl of Glencairn." Poems, 
p. m. 



sake, do not address to me supervisor, lor 
that is an honour I cannot pretend to — I am 
on the list, as we call it, for a supervisor, 
and will be called out by and by to act as 
one : but at present I am a simple ganger, 
though t'other day T got an appointment to 
an excise division of 2")/. per ann. better than 
the rest. My present income, down money, 
is 70^. per ann. 



I have one or two good fellows here whom 
you would be glad to know. 



No. CXXIV. 
FROM SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD. 



A''car MayhoUy \Qth October, 179L 



Sir, 



Accept of my thanks for your favour^ 
with the Lament on the death of my much- 
esteemed friend, and your worthy patron, 
the perusal of which pleased and affected me 
much. The lines addressed to me are very 
flattering. 

I have always thought it most natural to 
suppose (and a strong argument in favour of 
a future existence) that when wo see an ho- 
nourable and virtuous man labouring under 
bodily infirmities, and oppressed by the 
frowns of fortune in this world, that there 
was a happier state beyond the grave ; where 
that worth and honour, which were neglect- 
ed here, would meet with their just reward ; 
and where temporal misfortunes would re- 
ceive an eternal recompense. Let us che- 
rish this hope for our departed friend, ani 
moderate our grief for that loss we have sus- 
tained, knowing that he cannot return to us, 
but we may go to hirn. 

Remember ma to your v/ife ; and with 
every good v/ish for the prosperity of you 
and your family, believe me, at all times, 
Your most sincere friend, 

.lOUN WHITEF00R13. 



No. CXXV. 
FROM A. F. TYTLER, ESQ. 
Edinburgh, 27 th JVovcmber, 1791. 

Dear Sir, 

You have much reason to blame me for 
nefflectinjr till now to acknowledge the re- 



IdO 



LETTERS. 



jeipt ol'a most agreeable packet, containing 
The Wldslle^ a ballad; and The Lament j 
which reached me about six weeks ago in 
London, from whence I am just returned. 
Your letter was forwarded to me there from 
Edinburgh, where, as I observed by the date, 
it had lain for some days. This was an ad- 
ditional reason fur me to have answered it 
immediately on receiving it : but the truth 
was, the bustle of business, engagements, 
and confusion of one kind or another, in 
which I found myself immersed all the time 
I was in London, absolutely put it out of my 
power. But to have done vvitli apologies, let 
me now endeavour to prove myself in some 
degree deserving of the very flattering com- 
pliment you pay me, by giving you at least 
a frank and candid, if it should not be a judi- 
cious, criticism on the poems you sent me. 

The ballad of The Whistle is, in my opi- 
nion, truly excellent. The old tradition 
which you have taken up is the best adapted 
for a Bacchanalian composition of any I ever 
met with, and you have done it full justice. 
In the first place, the strokes of wit arise na- 
turally from the subject, and are uncommon- 
ly happy. For example — 

" The bands grew the tighter the more they were 
wet," 

" Cynthia hinted he*d find them next morn." 

" The* Fate said — a hero should perish in light ; 
So up rose bright Phoebus, — and down fell the 
knight." 

In the next place you are singularly happy 
in the discrimination of your heroes, and in 
giving each the sentiments and language 
suitable to his character. And, lastly, you 
have much merit in the delicacy of the pane- 
gyric which you have contrived to throw on 
each of the dramatis personce, perfectly ap- 
propriate to his character. The compliment 
to Sir Robert, the blunt soldier, is peculiarly 
fine. In short, this composition, in my opi- 
nion, does you great honour, and I see not a 
line or word in it which I could wish to be 
altered. 

As to the Lament, I suspect from some ex- 
pressions in your letter to me that you are 
more doubtful with respect to the merits of 
this piece than of the other ; and I own I 
think you have reason; for although it con- 
tains some beautiful stanzas, as the first, 
" The wind blew hollow," &c ; the fifth, 
<' Ye scatter'd birds;" the thirteenth, 
" Awake thy last sad voice," &c. ; yet it 
appears to me faulty as a whole, and inferior 
to several of those you have already publish- 
ed in the same strain. My principal objec- 
tion lies against the plan of the piece. I 
think it was unnecessary and improper to 
put the lamentation in the mouth of a ficti- 
lio.tis character, an agtd bard. — It had been 



much better to have lamented your patron in 
your own person, to have expressed your ge- 
nuine feelings for the loss, and to have spo- 
ken the language of nature, rather than that 
of fiction, on the subject. Compare this with 
your poeii) of the same title in your printed 
volume, which begins, thou pale Oibj and 
observe what it is that forms the charm of 
that composition. It is, that it speaks the 
language of truth dind of nature. The change 
is, in my opinion injudicious too in this res- 
pect, that an aged bard lias much less need 
of a patron and a protector than a young one. 
I have thus given you, with much freedom, 
liiy opinion of both the pieces. I should 
have made a very ill return to the compli- 
ment you paid me, if I had given you any 
other than my genuine sentiments. 

It will give me great pleasure to hear from 
you when you find leisure ; and I beg you 
will believe me ever, dear Sir, yours, &c. 



No. CXXVI. 

TO MISS DAVIES. 

It is impossible. Madam, that the gene- 
rous warmth and angeUc purity of your 
youthful mind can have any idea of that mo- 
ral disease under which I unhappily must 
rank as the chief of sinners ; I mean a tur- 
pitude of the moral powers, that may be 
called a lethargy of conscience — in vain 
Remorse rears her horrent crest, and rouses 
all her snakes: beneath the deadly fixed eye 
and leaden hand of Indolence, their wildest 
ire is charmed into the torpor of the bat, 
slumbering out the rigours of winter in the 
chink of a ruined wall. Nothing less. Ma- 
dam, could have made me so long neglect 
your obliging commands. Indeed I had one 
apology — the bagatelle was not worth pre- 
senting. Besides, so strongly am I interested 
in Miss D 's fate and welfare in the se- 
rious business of life, amid its chances and 
changes ; that to make her the subject of a 
silly ballad, is downright mockery of these 
ardent feelings ; 'tis like an impertinent jest 
to a dying friend. 

Gracious Heaven ! why this disparity be- 
tween our wishes and our powers .-* Why is 
the most generous wish to make others bles- 
sed, impotent, and ineffectual — as the idle 
breeze that crosses the pathless desert.' In 
my walks of life I have met with a few people 
to whom how gladly would I have said — 
" Go be happy !" I know that your hearts 
have been wounded by the scorn of the 
proud, whom accident has placed above you 
— or worse still, in whose hands are, perhaps, 
placed many of the comforts of your life. 
But there ! ascend that rock. Independence, 



LETTEKS. 



151 



and look justly down on their littleness ©f 
soul. Make the worthless tremble under 
your indignation, and the foolish sink before 
your contempt; and largely impart that hap- 
piness to others which 1 am certain will give 
yourselves so much pleasure to bestow." 

Why, dear Madam, must I wake from this 
delightful reverie, and find it all a dream .-' 
Why, amid my generous enthusiasm, must 1 
find myself poor and powerless, incapable of 
wiping one tear from the eye of pity, or of 
adding one C/mfort to the friend I love ! — 
Out upon the world ! say I, that its affairs 
are administered so ill ! They talk of reform ; 
— good Heaven what a reform would I make 
among the sons, and even the daughters of 
men ! — Do^vn immediately should go (ools 
from the high places where misbegotten 
chance has perked them up, and through life 
should they skulk, ever haunted by their na- 
tive insignificance, as the body marches ac- 
companied by its shadow. — As for a much 
more formidable class, the knaves, I am at a 
loss what to do with them ; — had I a world, 
there should not be a knave in it. 



But the hand that could give, I would libe- 
rally fill ; and 1 would pour delight on the 
heart that could kindly forgive and gene- 
rously love. 

Still, the inequalities of life are, among 
men, comparatively tolerable — but there is 
a delicacy, atenderness, accompanying every 
view in which we can place lovely VVoman, 
that are grated and shocked at the rude, ca- 
pricious distinctions of fortune. Woman is 
the blood royal of life : let there be slight de- 
grees of precedency among them — but let 
them be all sacred. Whether this last sen- 
timent be right or wrong, 1 am not account- 
able ; it is an original component feature of 
mv mind. 



and many heroes of his truly illustrious line, 
and herself the mother of several soldiers, 
needs neither preface nor apology. 



No. CXXVII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 17th December, 1791. 

Many thanks to you, Madam, for your 
good news respecting the little floweret and 
the mother-plant. I hope my poetic prayers 
have been heard, and will be answered up to 
the warmest sincerity of their fullest extent ; 
and then Mrs. Henri will tind her little dar- 
ling the representative of his late parent, in 
every thing but his abridged existence. 

I have just finished the following song, 
which, to a lady the descendant of Wallace, 



Scent— A Field of Battle— Time of the Day, 
Evening— the wounded and dying of the 
victorious Army are sujjposed to join in 
the following 

SONG OF DEATH. 

Farewell thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye 
s'iies, 
Now gay with the broad setting sun ! 
Farewell loves and friendships; ye dear, tender 
ties, 
Our race of existence is run ! 

Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy 
foe, 
Go frighten the coward and slave ; 
Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but 
know, 
No terrors hast thou to the brave .' 

Thou strik'st the poor peasant— he sinks in the 
dark, 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name ; 
Thou strik'st the young hero — a glorious mark, 

He falls in the blaze of his fame ! 

In the field of proud honour — our swords in our 
hands. 

Our king and our country to save — 
While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands— 

O, who would not die with the brave .''* 



The circumstance that gave rise to the 
foregoing verses, was looking over, with a 
musical friend, M' Donald's collection of 
Highland airs, I was struck with one, an 
Isle of Skye tune, entitled Oran an Jioig, 
or. The Song of Death, to the measure of 
which I have adapted my stanzas. I have of 
late composed two or three other little pieces, 
which, ere yon full-orbed moon, whose broad 
impudent face, now stares at old mother 
earth all night, shall have shrunk into a mo- 
dest crescent, just peeping forth at dewy 
dawn, I shall find an hour to transcribe for 
you. Ji Dieuje vous commende ! 



No. cxxvni. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

5th January J 1792. 

You see my hurried life, Madam : I can 
only command starts of time : however, I am 

* This is a little altered from the one given in 
p. 106, of the Poems. 



152 



LETTERS. 



glad of one thing ; since I finished the other 
sheet, the political blast that threatened my 
welfare is overblown. I have corresponded \ 
with Commissioner Graham, for the Board 
had made me the subject of their animad- 
versions : and now I have the pleasure of in- 
forming you, that all is set to rights in that 
quarter. Now as to these informers, may 

the devil be let loose to but hold ! I 

was praying m.ost fervently in my last sheet, 
and I must not so soon fall a swearing in this. 

Alas ! how little do the wantonly or idly 
officious think what mischief they do by their 
malicious insinuations, indirect imperti- 
nence, or thoughtless blahbings ! What a 
difference there is in intrinsic worth, can- 
dour, benevolence, generosity, kindness — \ 
in all the chariues, and all the virtues, be- 
tween one class of human beings and ano- 
ther! For instance, the amiable circle I so 
lately mixed with in the hospitable hall of 

D , their generous hearts — their uncon- 

taminated, dignified minds — their informed 
and polished understandings — v/hat a con- 
trast, when compared — if such comparing 
were not downright sacrilege — with the soul 
of the miscreant who can deliberately plot 
the destruction of an honest man that never 
offended him, and with a grin of satisfac- 
tion see the unfortunate being, his faithful 
wife and prattling innocents, turned over to 
beggary and ruin ! 

Your cup, my dear Madam, arrived safe. 
I had two worthy fellows dining with me the 
other day, when I, with great formality, pro- 
duced niy whigmeleerie cup. and to'd them 
that it had been a family-piece among the 
descendants of Sir William Wallace. This 
roused such an enthusiasm, that they insist- 
ed on bumpering the punch round in it ; and, 
by and by, never did your great ancestor lay 
a Suihronmore completely to rest, than for a 
time did your cup my two friends. J^propos ! 
this is the season uf wishing. May God bless 
you, my dear friend ! and bless me, the hum- 
blest and sincerest of your friends, by grant- 
ing you yet many returns of the season ! 
May all good things attend you and yours 
wherever thev are scattered orer the earth ! 



No. CXXTX. 
TO MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE, 

PRINTEK. 

Dumfries, 22d January, 1792. 

I sit down, my dear Sir, to introduce a 
young lady to you, and a lady in the first 
rank of fashion, too. What a task ! to you — 
who care no more for the herd of animals 



called young ladies, than you do for the herd 
of animals called young gentlemen. To you 
— vA\o despise and detest the groupings and 
combinations of fashi(*n, as an idiot painter 
that seems industrious to place staring fools 
and unprincipled knaves in the foreground 
of his picture, while men of sense and ho- 
nesty are too often thrown in the dimmest 
shades. Mrs. Riddle, who will take this let- 
ter to town with her, and send it to you, is 
a character that, even in your ovvn way as a 
naturalist and a philosopher, would be an 
acquisition to your acquaintance. The lady 
too is a votary of the muses ; and as I think 
myself somewhat of a judge in my own trade, 
I assure you that her verses, always correct, 
and often elegant, are much beyond the com- 
mon run of the lady poetesses of the day. 
She is a great admirer of your book : and, 
hearinjy me say thnt I was acquainted with 
you, slie begged to be known to you, as she 
is just going to j)ay her first visit to our Ca- 
ledonian capital. I told her that her best 
way v^as, to desire her near relation, and 
your intimate friend, Craigdarroch, to have 
you at his house while she was there ; and 
lest you might think of a lively West Indian 
girl of eighteen, as girls of eighteen too often 
deserve to be thought of, I should take care 
to remove that prejudice To be impartial, 
however, in appreciating the lady's merits, 
she has one unlucky failing ; a failing which 
you will easy discover, as she seems rather 
pleased with indulging in it ; and a failing 
that you will as easily pardon, as it is a sin 
which very much besets yourself^ — where 
she dislikes or despises, she is apt to make no 
more a secret of it, than where she esteems 
and respects. 

I will not present you with the unmeaning 
complhiients of the season, but I will send 
you my warmest wishes and most ardent 
prayers, that Fortune may never throw your 
subsistf-nct to the mercy of a kneve, or set 
your character on the judgment of a fool ; 
but that upright and erect, you may walk to 
an honest grave, where men of letters shall 
say, Here lies a man who did honour to sci- 
ence ! and men of worth shall say. Here lies 
a man who did honour to human nature ! 



No. CXXX. 
TO MR. W. NiCOL. 

20//i February, 1792. 

O thou, wisest among the wise, meri- 
dian blaze of prudence, full moon of discre- 
tion, and chief of many counsellors ! How 
infinitely is thy puddled-headed, rattle-head- 
ed, wrong-headed, round-headed slave in- 
debted to thy supereminent goodness, that 



LETTERS. 



153 



from the luminous path of thy own right- 
lined rectitude, thoulookest beningnly down 
on an erring wretch, of whom the zig-zag 
wanderings defy all the powers of calcula- 
tion, from the simple copulation of units up 
to the hidden mysteries of fluxions : may one 
feeble ray of that light of wisdom which darts 
from thy sensorium,, straight as the arrow of 
heaven, and bright as the meteor of inspira- 
tion, may it be my portion, so that I may be 
less unworthy of the face and favour of that 
father of proverbs and master of maxims, 
that antipode of folly, and magnet among the 
sages, the wise and witty Willie Nicol ! — 
Amen ! Amen ! Yea, so be it ! 

For me ! I am a beast, a reptile, and know 
nothing! From the cave of my ignorance, 
amid ihe fogs of my dulness, and pestilential 
fumes of my political heresies, I look up to 
thee, as doth a toad through the iron-barred 
lucerne of a pestiferous dungeon, to the 
cloudless glory of a summer sun ! Sorely 
sighing in bitterness of soul, I say, when 
shall my name be the quotation of the wise, 
and my countenance be the delight of the 
godly, like the illustrious lord of Laggan's 
many hills ?* As for him, his works are per- 
fect : never did the pen of calumny blur the 
fair page of his reputation, nor the bolt of ha- 
tred fly at his dwelling. 



Thou mirror of purity, when shall the el- 
fine lamp of my glimerous understanding, 
purged from sensual appetites and gross de- 
sires, shine like the constellation of thy in- 
tellectual powers ? As for thee, thy thoughts 
are pure, and thy lips are holy. Never did 
the unhallowed breath of the powers of dark- 
ness, and the pleasures of darkness, pollute 
the sacred flame of thy sky-descended and 
heaven-hound desires; never did the vapours 
of impurity stain the uucloudeil senine i>fthy 
cerulean imagination. O that like thine were 
the tenor of my life ! like thine the tenor of 
my conversation ! then should no friend fear 
for my strength, no enemy rejoice in my 
weakness ! then should I lie down and rise 
up, and none to make me afraid. — May thy 
pity and thy prayer be exercised for, O thou 
lamp of wisdom and mirror of morality ! thy 
devoted slave. t 



No. CXXXI. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

2d March, 1792. 

Since I wrote you the last lugubrious 
sheet, I have not had time to write you far- 

* Mr. Nicol. 

f This strain of irony was excited by a letter 
of Mr. Nicol, containing good advice. 



I ther. When I say that I had not time, that, 
I as usual, means, that the 1»hree demons, in- 
dolfince, business, and ennui, have so com- 
pletely shared my hours among them, as not 
to leave me a five minutes' fragment to take 
up a pen in. 

j Thank heaven, I feel my spirits buoying 

, upwards with the renovating year. Now I 

shall in good earnest take up Thomson's 

songs. I dare say he thinks I have used him 

: unkindly, and I must own with too much 

appearance of truth. Jlpropos ! Do you 

know the much admired old Highland air, 

called The Sulor's Dochter ? It is a first- 

{ rate favourite of mine, and I have written 

I what I reckon one of my best songs to it. I 

: will send it to you, as it was sung with great 

i applause in some fashionable circles, by Ma- 

I jor Robertson, of Lude, who was here with 

his corps 



There is one commission that I must trou- 
ble you with. I lately lost a valuable seal, 
a present from a departed friend, which vexes 
j me much. I have gotten one of your High- 
! land pebbles, which I fo.ncy would make a 
' very decent one ; and I want to cut my ar- 
morial bearing on it ; will you be so obliging 
as inquire what will be the expense of such a 
business .'' I do not know that my name is 
matriculated, as the heralds call it, at all ; but 
I have invented arms for myself, so you know 
I shall be the chief of the name ; and, by 
courtesy of Scotland, will likewise be entitled 
to supporters. These, however, I do not in- 
tend having on my seal. I am a bit of a he- 
rald, and shall give you, secundum artem, my 
arms. On a field, azure, a holly bush, seed- 
ed, proper, in base ; a shepherd's pipe and 
crook, saltier-wise, also proper, in chief. On 
a. wreatli of the colours, a wood-lark, perch- 
ing on a sprig of bay tree, proper, for crest. 
Two mottoes : round the top of the crest, 
Wood notes wild ; at the bottom of the shield, 
in the usual place. Better a wee busk than 
nae Held. By the shepherd's pipe and crook 
I do not mean the nonsense of painters of 
Arcadia, but a Stock and Horn, and a Club^ 
such • s you see at the head of Allan Ram- 
say, in Mian's quarto edition of the Gentle 
Shepherd. By the by, do you know Allan .^ 
He must be a man of very great genius — 
Why is he not more known .' — Has he no pa- 
trons ? or do " Poverty's cold wind and crush- 
ing rain beat keen and heavy" on him .'' I 
once, and but once, got a glance of that no- 
ble edition of that noblest pastoral in the 
world ; and dear as it was, I mean, dear as 
to my pocket, 1 would have bought it ; but I 
was told that it was printed and engraved 
for subscribers only. He is the only artist 
who has \x\i genuine pastoral costume. What, 
my dear Cunningham, is there in riches,, 
that they narrow and harden the heart so ? 



154 



LETTEKsi. 



I think, that were I as rich as the sun, I 
should be as generous as the day ; but as I 
have no reason to imagine my soul a nobler 
one than any other man's, I must conclude 
that wealth imparts a bird-lime quality to the 
possessor, at which the man, in his native 
poverty, would have revolted. What has led 
me to this, is the idea of such merit as Mr. 
Allan possesses, and such riches as a nabob 
or government contractor possesses, and why 
they do not form a mutual league Let 
wealth shelter and cherish unprotected me- 
rit, and the gratitude and celebrity of that 
merit will richly repay it. 



No. CXXXII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
Annan Water Foot, 22d Aug. 1792. 

Do not blame me for it, Madam — my 
own conscience, hackneyed and weather- 
beaten as it is, in watching and reproving 
my vagaries, follies, indolence, «fec. has con- 
tinued to blame and punish me sufficiently. 



Do you think it possible, my dear and ho- 
noured friend, that I could be so lost to gra- 
titude for many favours ; to esteem for much | 
worth, and to the honest, kind, pleasurable I 
tie of, now old acquaintance, and I hope and \ 
am sure of progressive increasing friendship 
— as, for a single day, not to think of you — ! 
to ask the Fates what they are doing and , 
about to do with my much-loved friend and 
her wide-scattered connexions, und t • beg 
of them to be as kind to you and yours as ! 
they possibly can .'' 

Apropos! (though how it is apropos, I 
have not leisure to explain.) Do you know 
that I am almost in love with an acquaint- 
ance of yours .'' — Almost ! said I — I am in 
love, souse ! over head and ears, deep as the 
most unfathomable abyss of the boundless 
ocean ; but the word Love, owing to the in- 
termingledoms of the good and the bad, the 
pure and the impure, in this world, being ra- 
ther an equivocal term for expressing one's 
sentiments and sensations, I must do justice 
-to the sacred purity of my attachment. — 
Know, then, that the heart-struck awe; the 
distant, humble approach ; the delight we 
should have in gazing upon and listening to 
a messenger of heaven, appearing in all the 
unspotted purity of his celestial home, among 
the coarse, polluted, far inferior sons of men, 
to deliver to them tidings that make their 
hearts swim in joy, and their imaginations 



soar in transport — such, so delighting and so 
pure, were the emotion of my soul on meet- 
ing the other day with Miss L— B — , your 

neighbour, at M^ Mr. B., with his two 

daughters, accompanied by Mr. H. of G., 
parsing through Dumfries a few days ago, 
on their way to England, did me the honour 
of calling on me; on which I took my horse, 
(though God knows I could ill spare the 
time,) and acconipanied them fourteen or 
fifteen miles, and dined and spent the day 
with them. 'Twas about nine, 1 think, when 
I left them ; and, riding home, 1 composed 
the following ballad, of which you will pro- 
bably think you have a dear bargain, as it 
will cost you another groat of postage. You 
must know that there is an old ballad begin- 
ning with — 

" My bonnie Lizie Bailie, 
I'll rowe thee in my plaidie." 

So I parodied it as follows, which is literally 
the first copy, " unanomted, unanneal'd ;" a* 
Hamlet says — 

" O saw ye bonnie Lesley," &.c. 

So much for ballads. I regret that you 
are gone to the east country, as I am to be 
in Ayrshire in about a fortnight. This world 
of ours, notwithstanding it has many good 
things in it, yet it has ever had this curse, 
that two or three people, wJio would be the 
happier the oftener they met together, are 
almost without exception, always so placed 
as never to meet but once or twice a-ycar, 
which, considering the few years of a man's 
life, is a very great " evil under the sun," 
which I do not recollect that Solomon has 
mentioned in his catalogue of the miseries 
of man. I hope and believe that there is a 
state of existence beyond the grave, where 
the worthy of this life will renew their for- 
mer intimacies, with this endearing addition, 
that, " we meet to part no more !" 



" Tell us ye dead, 
Will none^of you in pity disclose the secret 
What 'tisyou are, and we must shortly be.'" 

A thousand times have I made this apostro- 
phe to the departed sons of men, but not one 
of them has ever thought fit to answer the 
question. " O that some courteous ghost 
would blab it out !" but it cannot be; you 
and I, my friend, must make the experiment 
by ourselves, and for ourselves However, 
I am so convinced that an unshaken faith in 
the doctrines of religion is not only necessa- 
ry, by making us better men, but also by 
making us happier men, that I shall take 
every care that your little godson, and every 
little creature that shall call me father, shall 
be taught them. 



LETTERS. 



155 



So ends this heterogeneous letter, written 
at this wild place of the world, in the inter- 
vals of my labour of discharging a vessel of 
rum from Antigua. 



No. CXXXIII. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Dumfries^ \Oth September, 1792. 

No! I will not attempt an apology — 
Amid all ray hurry of business grinding the 
faces of the publican and the sinner on the 
merciless wiieels of the excise; making bal- 
lads, and then drinking, and singing them ; 
and, over and above all, the correcting the 
press- work of two different publications, still 
I might have stolen five minutes to dedicate 
to one of the first of my friends and fellow- 
creatures. I might have done, as I do at pre- 
sent, snatched an hour near " witching time 
of night," and scrawled a page or two. I 
might have congratulated my friend on his 
marriage, or I might have thanked the Ca- 
ledonian archers for the honour they have 
done me (though to do myself justice, I in- 
tended to have done both in rhyme, else I 
had done both long ere now.) Well, then, 
here is to your good health ! for you must 
know I have set a nipperkin of toddy by me, 
just by way of spell, to keep away the inei- 
kle horned Doil, or any of his subaltern imps 
who may be on their nightly rounds. 



But what shall I write to you ? '' The 
voice said, cry ! and I said, What shall I 
cry .-"' — O, thou spirit! whatever thou art, or 
wherever thou makest thyself visible ! be 
thou a bogle by the eerie side of an auld 
thorn, in the dreary glen through which the 
herd callan maun bicker in his gloamin route 
frae the faulde ! Be thou a brownie, set, at 
dead of night, to thy task by the blazing in- 
gle, or in the solitary barn, where the reper- 
cussions of thy iron flail half affriglit thyself 
as thou performestthe work of twenty of the 
sons of men, ere the cock-crowing summon 
thee to thy ample cog of substantial brose. 
Be thou a kelpie, haunting the ford or ferry, 
in the starless night, mixing thy laughing 
yell with the howling of the storm and the 
roaring of the flood, as thou viewest the pe- 
rils and miseries of man on the foundering 
horse, or in the tumbling boat! — Or, lastly, 
be thou a ghost, paying thy nocturnal visits 
to the hoary ruins of decayed grandeur; or 
performing thy mystic rights in the shadow 
of the time-worn church, while the m6on 
looks, without a cloud, on the silent ghastly 
dwellings of the dead around thee; or taking 
thy stand by the bed-side of the villain, or 
the murderer, portraying on his dreaming 
fancy, pictures, dreadful as the horrors of 

43 



unveiled hell, and terrible as the wrath of 
incensed Deity ! — Come, thou spirit ! but not 
in these horrid forms : come with the milder, 
gentle, easy inspirations which thou breath- 
est round the wig of a prating advocate, or 
the tete of a tea-sipping gossip, while their 
tongues run at the light-horpe gallop of clish- 
maclaver for ever and ever — come and assist 
a poor devil who is quite jaded in the at- 
tempt to sliare half an idea among half a 
hundred words; to fill up four quarto pages, 
while he has not got one single sentence of 
recollection, information, or remark, worth 
putting pen to pnper for. 

I feel, I feel the presence of supernatural 
assistance ! circled in the embrace of my el- 
bow-chair, my breast labours like the bloated 
Sybil on her three-footed stool, and like her 
too, labours with Nonsense. Nonsense, aus- 
picious name ! Tutor, friend, and finger- 
post in the myslic mazes of law ; the cada- 
verous paths of physic; and ))articularly in 
the sightless soarings of school divinitij, who 
leaving Common Sense confounded at his 
strength of pinion, Reason, delirious with 
eyeing his giddy flight ; and Truth creeping 
back into the bottom of her well, cursing the 
hour that ever she offered her scorned al- 
liance to the wizard power of Theologic Vi- 
sion — raves abroad on all tlie winds. "On 
earth. Discord ! a gloomy Heaven above 
opening her jealous gates to the nineteen 
thousandth part of the tithe of mankind ! and 
below, an inescapable and inexorable Hell, 
expanding its leviathan jaws for the vast re- 
sidue of mortals ! ! I" O doctrine ! comfort- 
able and healing to the weary, wounded soul 
of man ! Ye sons and daughters of affliction, 
ye pauvres miserables, to whom day brings 
no pleasure, and night yields no rest, be 
comforted ! " 'Tis but one to nineteen hun- 
dred thousand that your situation will mend 
in this world ;" so, alas I the experience of 
the poor and the needy too often affirms ; 
and, 'tis nineteen hundred thousand to ove, 
by the dogmas of * * * *, that you 
will be damned eternally in the world to 
come ! 



But of all Nonsense, Religious Nonsense 
is the most nonsensical ; so enough, and more 
than enough, of it. Only, by the by, will 
you, or can you tell me, my dear Cunning- 
ham, why a sectarian turn of mind has always 
a tendency to narrow and illcberalize the 
heart .'' They are orderly : they may be just ; 
nay, I have known them merciful ; but still 
your children of sanctity move among their 
fellow-creatures, with a nostril-snuffing pu- 
trescence, and afoot-spurning filth ; in short, 
with a conceited dignity that your titled 

* * * or any other of your Scottish lord- 
lings of seven centuries standing, display 
when they accidentally mix among the many 
aproned sons of mechanical life. I remem- 
ber in my plough-boy days, I could not con- 



156 



LETTERS. 



ceive it possible that a noble lord could be a 
fool, or a godly man could be a knave. — How 
ignorant are plough-boys! — Nay, I have since 
discovered that a godly icoman may be a 
* * * ! — But hold — Here's t'ye again — 
this rum is generous Antigua, so a very unfit 
menstruum for scandal. 

.apropos; How do you like, I mean really, 
like the married life .'' Ah ! my friend, ma- 
trimony is quite a different thing from what 
your love-sick youths and sighing girls take 
it to be ! But marriage, we are told, is ap- 
pointed by God, and T shall never quarrel 
with any of his institutions. I am a husband 
of older standing than you, and shall give 
you my ideas of the conjugal state (en j)as- 
sant, you know I am no Latinist : is not con- 
jugal derived from jugurn, a 3'oke.'') Well, 
Ihenthe scale of good vvifeship I divide into 
ten parts: — Good-na)ure,four ; good sense, 
two ; wit, one ; personal charms, viz. a sweet 
face, eloquent eyes, fine limbs, graceful car- 
riage (1 would add a fine waist too, but that 
is soon spoiled you know,) all these, one ; 
as for the other qualities belonging to, or at- 
tending on, a wife, such as fortune, connex- 
ions, education, (I mean education extraor- 
dinary,) family blood, &c., divide the two 
remaining degrees among them as you 
please ; only remember that all these minor 
properties must be expressed hy fractions, 
for there is not any one of them in the afore- 
said scale, entitled to the dignity of an in- 
teger. 

As for the rest of ray fancies and reveries 

— how I lately met with Miss L B , 

the most beautiful, elegant woman in the 
world — how I accompanied her and her fa- 
ther's family fifteen miles on their journey 
out of pure devotion, to admire the loveliness 
of the works of God, in such an unequalled 
display of them — how, in galloping home at 
night, I made a ballad on her, of which these 
two stanzas made a part — 



Thou, bonnie L- 



art a queen, 



Thy subjects we before thee ; 

Thou, bonnie L , art divine, 

The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The very Deil he could na scathe 

Whatever wad belang thee ! 
He'd look into thy bonnie face. 

And say, " I canna wrang thee !" 

— Behold all these things are written in the 
ehronicles of my imaginations, and shall be 
read by thee, my dear friend, and by thy be- 
loved spouse, my other dear friend, at a more 
convenient season. 

Now, to thee, and to thy before designed 
Jo5077i-companion, be given the precious 
things brought forth bv the sun, and the pre- 
cious things brought wrth by the moan, and 



the benignest influences of the stars, and the 
living streams which flow from the fountains 
of life, and by the tree of life, for ever and 
ever ! Amen ! 



No. CXXXIV. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Dumfries, 2ith September, 1792. 

I have this moment, my dear Madam, 
yours of the twenty -third. All your o'ther 
kind reproaches, your news, &c. are out of 
my head when I read and think on Mrs. H.'s 
situation. Good God I a heart-wounded, 
helpless young woman — in a strange, fo- 
reign land, and that land convulsed with 
every horror that can harrow the human 
feelmgs — sick — looking, longing for a com- 
forter, but finding none — a mother's feelings 
too — but it is too much : He who wounded 
(He only can) may He heal !* 



I wish the farmer great joy of his new ac- 
quisition tu his family, * * * * 
I cannot say that I give him joy of his life as 
a farmer. 'Tis, as a farmer paying a dear, 
unconscionable rent, a cursed life! As to a 
laird farming his own property ; sowing his 
own corn in hope ; and reaping it, in spite 
of brittle weather, in gladness : knowing that 
none can say unto him " what dost thou !" — 
fattening his herds ; shearing his flocks ; re- 
joicing at Christmas ; and begetting sons 
and daughters, until he be the venerated, 
gray-haired leader of a little tribe — 'tis a 
heavenly life — but devil take the life of reap- 
ing the fruits that another must eat ! 

Well, your kind wishes will be gratified 
as to seeing me, when 1 make my Ayrshire 
visit. I cannot leave Mrs B untd her nine 
months' race is run, which may perhaps be 
in three or four weeks. She, too. seems de- 
termined to make me the patriarchal leader 
of a band. However, if Heaven will be so 
obliging as to let me have them in proportion 
of three boys to one girl, I shall be so much 
the more pleased. I hope, if I am spared 
with them, to show a set of boys that will do 
honour to my cares and name ; but I am not 
equal to the task of rearing girls. Besides, I 
am too poor : a girl should always have a for- 
tune. — Apropos; your little godson is thriv- 
ing charmingly, but is a very devil. He, 
though two years younger, has completely 
mastered his brother. Robert is indeed the 



* This much lamented lady was gone to the 
south of France with her infant son, where she 
died soon after. 



LETTERS. 



157 



mildest, gentlest, creature I ever saw. He 
has a most surprising memory, and is quite 
the pride of his schoohnaster. 

You know how readilj? we get into prattle 
upon a subject dear to our heart: You can 
excuse it. God bless you and yours ! 



No. CXXXV, 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Supposed to have been written on the Death 
of Mrs. H , her daughter. 

1 had been from home and did not re- 
ceive your letter until my return the other 
day. What shall I say to comfort you, my 
much-valued, much-afflicted friend.? 1 can 
but grieve with you ; consolation I have none 
to offer, except that which religion holds out 
to the children of affliction — Children of af- 
fliction .' — how just the expression! and like 
every other family, they have matters among 
them, which they hear; see, and feel in a se- 
rious, all-important manner, of which the 
world has not, nor cares to have, any idea. 
The world looks indifferently on, makes the 
passing remark, and proceeds to the next no- 
vel occurrence. 

Alas, Madam ! who would wish for many 
years ? What is it but to drag out existence 
until our joys gradually expire, and leave us 
in a night of misery ; like the gloom which 
blots out the stars one by one, from the face 
of night, and leaves us without a ray of com- 
fort in the howling waste ! 

I am interrupted, and must leave off. You 
shall soon hear from me aorain. 



No. CXXXVI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Dumfries, 6th December, 1792. 

I shall be in Ayrshire, I think next 
week; and, if at all possible, I shall certain- 
ly, my much esteemed friend, have the plea- 
sure of visiting at Dunlop House. 

Alas, Madam ! how seldom do we meet in 
this world tliat we have reason to congratu- 
late ourselves on accessions of happiness ! I 
have not passed half the ordinary term of an 
old man's life, and yet I scarcely look over 
the obituary of a newspaper, that I do not 
siee some names that 1 have known, and 
which I and other acqiiaintances^ little 



thought to meet with there so soon. Every 
other instance of the mortality of our kind 
makes us cast an anxious look into the dread- 
ful abyss of uncertainty, and shudder with 
apprehension for our own fate. But of how 
different an importance are the lives of dif- 
ferent individuals ? Nay, of what importance 
is one period of the same life more than ano- 
ther -* A few years ago, I could have lain 
down in the dust, " careless of the voice of 
the morning ;" and now not a few, and these 
most helpless individuals, would, on losingf 
me and my exertions, lose both their " staff 
and shield." By the way, these helpless 

ones have lately got an addition, Mrs. B 

having given me a fine girl since I wrote 
you. There is a charming passage in Thom- 
son's Edward and Eleanora — 

" The valiant in himself, what can he suffer.** 
Or what need he regard his single woes ?" &c. 

As I am got in the way of quotations, I 
shall give you another from the same piece, 
peculiarly, alas ! too peculiarly apposite, ray 
dear Madam, to your present frame of mind: 

" Who so unworthy but may proudly deck him 
With his fair-weather virtue that exults 
Glad o'er the summer main .'' the tempest comes, 
The rough winds rage aloud ; when from the 

helm 
This virtue shrinks, and in a corner lies 
Lamenting— Heavens I if privileged from trial, 
How cheap a thing were virtue !" 

I do not remember to have heard you men- 
tion Thomson's dramas. I pick up favourite 
quotations, and store them in my mind as 
ready armour, offensive or defensive, amid 
the struggle of this turbulent existence. Of 
these is one, a very favourite one, from his 
Mfred : 

" Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds 

.\nd offices of life ; to life itself, 

With all its vain and transient joys, sit loose." 

Probably I have quoted some of these to 
you formerly, as indeed when I write from 
the heart, I am apt to be guilty of such repe- 
titions. The compass of the heart, in the 
musical style of expression, is much more 
bounded than that of the imagination ; so the 
notes of the former are extremely apt to run 
into one another ; but in return for the pau- 
city of its compass, its few notes are much 
more sweet. I must still give you another 
quotation, which I am almost sure I have 
given you before, but I cannot resist the 
temptation. The subject is religion — speak- 
ing of its importance to mankind, the author 
says, 

" 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks oar morning 

bright, 
'Tis this tliat gilds the horror af our nigiit, 



158 



LETTERS. 



When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are 

few ; 
When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue ; 
'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart, 
Disarms affliction, or repels his dart ; 
Within the breast bids purest raptures rise, 
Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless 

skies." 

I see you are in for a double postage, so I 
shall e'en scribble out t'other sheet. We, in 
this country here, have many alarms of the 
reforming, or rather the republican spirit, 
of your part of the kingdom. Indeed, we 
are a good deal in commotion ourselves. For 
me, I am a placeman, you know ; a very 
humble one indeed, Heaven knows, but still 
so much so as to gag me. What my private 
sentiments are, you will find out without an 
interpreter. 



I have taken up the subject in another 
view, and the other day, for a pretty actress's 
benefit night, I wrote an Address, which I 
will give on the other page, called The Rights 
of Woman* 

I shall have the honour of receiving your 
criticisms in person at Dimlop. 



No. CXXXVII. 

TO MISS B , OF YORK. 

21st of March, 1792. 
Madam, 

Among many things for which I envy 
those hale^ long-lived old fellows before the 
flood, is this in particular, that when they 
met with any body after their own heart, 
they had a charming long prospect of many, 
many happy meetings with them in after- 
life. 

Now, in this short, stormy, winter day of 
our fleeting existence, when you, now and 
then, in the Chapter of Accidents, meet an 
individual whose acquaintance is a real ac- 
quisition , there are all the probabilities against 
you, that you shall never meet with that va- 
lued character more. On the other hand, 
brief as this miserable being is, it is none of 
the least of the miseries belonging to it, that 
if there is any miscreant whom you hate, or 
creature whom you despise, the ill run of the 
chances shall be so against you, that in the 
overtakings, turnings, and jostlings of life, 
pop, at some unlucky corner eternally comes 
the wretch upon you, and will not allow your 
indignation or contempt a moment's repose. 

* See Poems, p. 83. 



As I am a sturdy believer in tlie powers of 
darkness, I take these to be the doings of 
that old author of mischief, the devil. It is 
well known that he has some kind of short- 
hand way of taking down our thoughts, and 
I make no doubt that he is perfectly ac- 
quainted with my sentiments respecting 
Miss B ; how much I admired her abili- 
ties, and valued her worth, and huw very for- 
tunate I thought myself in her acquaintance. 
For this last reason, my dear Madam, Imust 
entertain no hopes of the very great pleasure 
of meeting with you again. 

Miss H tells me that she is sending a 

packet to you, and I beg leave to send you 
the enclosed sonnet, though to tell you the 
real truth, the sonnet is a mere pretence, 
that I may have the opportunity of declaring 
with how much respectful esteem I have the 
honour to be, &c. 



No. CXXXVIII. 



TO MISS C— 



Jltigust, 1793. 
Madam, 

Some rather unlooked-for accidents have 
prevented my doing myself the honour of a 
second visit to Arbeigland, as I was so hos- 
pitably invited, and so positively meant to 
have done. — However, I still hope to have 
that pleasure before the busy months of har- 
vest begin. 

I enclose you two of my late pieces, as 
some kind of return for the pleasure I have 
received in perusing a certain MS. volume 
of poems in the possession of Captain Riddel. 
To repay one with an old song, is a proverb, 
whose force, you. Madam, I know, will not 
allow. What is said of illustrious descent is, 
I believe, equally true of a talent for poetry, 
none ever despised it who had pretensions to 
it. The fates and characters of the rhyming 
tribe often employ ray thoughts when I am 
disposed to be melancholy. There is not, 
among all the martyrologies that ever were 
penned, so rueful a narrative as the lives of 
the poets. — In the comparative view of 
wretches, the criterion is not what they are 
doomed to suflfer, but how they are formed 
to bear. Take a being of our kind, give him 
a stronger imagination and a more delicate 
sensibility, which between them will ever 
engender a more ungovernable set of pas- 
sions than are the usual lot of man ; implant 
in him an irresistible impulse to some idle 
vagary, such as arranging wild flowers in 
fantastical nosegays, tracing the grasshopper 
to his haunt by his chirping song, watching 
the frisks of the little minnows, in the sun- 



LETTERS. 



159 



ny pool, or hunting after the intrigues of 
butterflies — in short, send him adrift after 
some pursuit which shall eternally mislead 
him from the paths of lucre, and yet curse him 
with a keener relish than any man living f >r 
the pleasures lucre can purchase • lastly, fill up 
the measure of his woes by bestowing on him 
a spurning sense of his own dignity, and you 
have created a wight nearly as miserable as 
a poet. To you, Madam, 1 need not recount 
the fairy pleasures the muse bestows to coun- 
terbalance this catalogue of evils. Bevi'itch- 
ing poetry is like bewitching woman ; she 
has in all ages been accused of misleading 
mankind from the councils of wisdom and 
the paths of prudence, involving them in dif- 
ficulties, baiting them with poverty, brand- 
ing them with infamy, and plunging them 
into the whirling vortex of ruin; yet where 
is the man but must own that all our happi- 
ness on earth is not worthy the name — that 
even the holy hermit's solitary prospect of 
paradisaical bliss is but the glitter of a north- 
ern sun rising over a frozen region, com- 
pared with the many pleasures, the nameless 
raptures that we owe to the lovely Queen of 
the heart of Man ! 



No. CXXXIX. 
TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ. 



December, 1793. 



Sir, 



It is said that we take the greatest li- 
berties with our greatest friends, and 1 pay 
myself a very high compliment in the man- 
ner in which I am going to apply the re- 
mark. I have owed you money longer than 
ever I owed to any man. Here is Ker's ac- 
count, and here are six guineas ; and now I 
don't owe a shilling to man — or woinan ei- 
ther. But for these damned dirty, dog's-ear- 
ed little pages,* I had done myself the ho- 
nour to have waited on you long ago. Inde- 
pendent of the obligations your hospitality 
has laid me under; the consciousness of your 
superiority in the rank of man and gentle- 
man, of itself was fully as much as I could 
ever make head against ; but to owe you mo- 
ney too, was more than I could face. 

I think I once mentioned something of a 
collection of Scots songs I have some years 
been making : I send you a perusal of what 
I have got together. I could not conve- 
niently spare them above five or six days, 
and five or six glances of them will probably 
more than suffice you. A very few of them 
are my own. When you are tired of them, 
please leave them with Mr. Clint, of the 

* Scottish bank notes. 



King's Arms. There is not another copy of 
the collection in the world ; and I should be 
sorry that any unfortunate negligence should 
deprive me of what has cost me a good deal 
of pains. 



No. CXL. 
TO MRS. R— 



Who was to bespeak a Play one Evening at 
the Dumfries Theatre. 

I am thinking to send my Address to 
some periodical publication, but it has not 
got your sanction, so pray look over it. 

As to the Tuesday's play, let me beg of 
you, my dear Madam, to give us, The Jfon- 
dei , a Woinan keeps a Secret! to which 
please add, The, Spoilt Child — you will high- 
ly oblige me by so doing. 

Ah ! what an enviable creature you are ! 
There now, this cursed gloomy blue-devil 
day, you are going to a party of choice spi- 
rits — 

" To play the shapes 
Of frolic fancy, and incessant form, 
Those rapid pictures, that assembled train 
01" fleet ideas, never join'd before, 
Where lively wit excites to gay surprise ; 
Or folly-painting humour, grave himself, 
Calls laughter forth, deep shaking every nerve." 

But as you rejoice with them that do re- 
joice, do also remember to weep with them 
that weep, and pity your melancholy friend. 



No. XCLI. 
To a Lady, in favour of a Player's Benefit. 

Madam, 

You were so very good as to promise me 
to honour my friend with your presence on 
his benefit night. That night is fixed for 
Friday first ! the play a most interesting 
one ! The way to keep him. I have the plea- 
sure to know Mr. G well. His merit as an 
actor is generally acknowledged. He has 
genius and worth which would do honour to 
patronage ; he is a poor and modest man ; 
claims which from their very silence have 
the more forcible power on the generous 
heart. Alas, for pity ! that from the indo- 
lence of those who have the good things of 
this life in their gift, too often does brazen- 
fronted importunity snatch that boon, the 
rightful due of retiring, humble want ! Of 
all the qualities we assign to the author and 



160 



LETTERS. 



director of Nature, by far the most enviable 
is — to be able " to wipe away all tears from 
all eyes." O what insignificant, sordid 
wretches are they, however chance may 
have loaded them with wealth, who go to 
their graves, to their magnificent mausole- 
ums, with hardly the consciousness of hav- 
ing made one poor honest heart happy ! 

But I crave your pardon, JMadam, I came 
to beg, not to preach. 



No. CXLII. 



EXTRACT OF A LETTER 



TO MR. 



1794. 



Sir, 



I am extremely obliged ta you for your 
kind mention of my interests, in a letter 

which Mr. S showed me. At present, 

my situation in life must be in a great mea- 
sure stationary, at least for two or three 
years. The statement is this — I am on the 
supervisors' list ; and as we come on there 
by precedency, in two or three years I shall 
be at the head of that list, and be appointed 
of course — then, a friend might be of service 
to me in getting me into a place of the king- 
dom which I would like A supervisor's in- 
come varies from about a hundred and twen- 
ty to two hundred a-year ; but the business 
is an incessant drudgery, and would be near- 
ly a complete bar to every species of literary 
pursuit. The moment I am appointed su- 
pervisor in the common routine, I may be 
nominated on the Collector's list; and this is 
always a business purely of political patron- 
age. A collectorship varies much from bet- 
ter than two hundred a year to near a thou- 
sand. They also come forward by prece- 
dency on the list, and have, besides a hand- 
some income, a life of complete leisure. A 
life of literary leisure, with a decent compe- 
tence, is the summit of my wishes. It would 
be the prudish affectation of silly pride in 
me to say that I do not need, or would not 
be indebted to a political friend •> at the same 
time. Sir, I by no means lay my affairs be- 
fore you thus, to hook mj' dependent situa- 
tion on your benevolence. If, in my progress 
in life, an opening should occur where the 
good offices of a gentleman of your public 
character and political consequence might 
bring me forward, I will petition your good- 
ness with the same frankness and sincerity 
as I now do myself the honour to subscribe 
myself, &c. 



No. CXLIII. 



TO MRS. R- 



Dear Madam, 

I meant to have called on you yester- 
night; but as I edged up to your box- door, 
the first object which greeted my view was 
one of those lobster-coated puppies, sitting 
like another dragon, guarding the Hesperian 
fruit. On the conditions and capitulations 
you so obligingly offer, I shall certainly 
make my weather-beaten rustic phiz a part 
of your box-furniture on Tuesday, when we 
may arrange the business of the visit. 



Among the profusion of idle compliments, 
which insidious crafl, or unmeaning folly, 
incessantly offer at your shrine — a shrine, 
how far exalted above such adoration — per- 
mit me, were it but for rarity's sake, to pay 
you the honest tribute of a warm heart and 
an independent mind ; and to assure you that 
I am, thou most amiable, and most accom- 
plished of thy sex, with the most respectful 
esteem, and fervent regard, thine, &c. 



No. CXLIV. 

TO THE SAME. 

I will wait on you my ever-valued friend, 
but whether in the morning I am not sure. 
Sunday closes a period of our cursed reve- 
nue business, and may probably keep me em- 
ployed with my pen until noon. Fine em- 
ployment for a poet's pen ! There is a spe- 
cies of the human genus that I call the gin- 
horse class ; what enviable dogs they are ! 
Round, and round, and round they go — 
Mundell's ox, that drives his cotton-mill, is 
their exact prototype — without an idea or 
wish beyond their circle ; fat, sleek, stupid, 
patient, quiet, and contented : while here I 
sit, altogether Novemberish, a d d me- 
lange of fretfulness and melancholy; not 
enough of the one to rouse me to passion, 
nor of the other to repose me in torpor; my 
soul flouncing and fluttering round her tene- 
ment, like a wild finch caught amid the hor- 
rors of winter, and newly thrust into a cage. 
Well, I am persuaded that it was of me the 
Hebrew sage prophesied, when he foretold — 
" And behold on whatsoever this man doth 
set his heart, it shall not prosper !" If my 
resentment is awakened, it is sure to be 
where it dare not squeak ; and if — 



LETTERS. 



161 



Pray that wisdom and bliss be more fre- 
quent visitors of 

R. B. 



No. CXLV. 

TO THE SAME. 

I have this moment got the song from 

S , and I am sorry to see that he has 

spoilt it a good deal. It shall be a lesson to 
me how I lend him any thing again. 

I have sent you Werter, truly happy to 
have any, the smallest opportunity of oblig- 
ing you. 

'Tis true, Madam, I saw you once since I 

was at W ; and that once froze the very 

life-blood of my heart. Your reception of 
me was such, that a wretch meeting the eye 
of his judge, about to pronounce the sentence 
of death on him, could only have envied my 
feelings and situation. But I hate the theme, 
and never more shall write or speak on it. 

One thing I shall proudly say, that I can 

pay Mrs. a higher tribute of esteem, 

and appreciate her amiable worth more tru- 
ly, than any man whom I have seen approach 
her. 



No. CXLVI. 

TO THE SAME. 

I have often told you, my dear friend, 
that you had a spice of caprice in your com- 
position, and you have as often disavowed it: 
even, perhaps, while your opinions were, at 
the m.»ment, irrefragably proving it. Could 
any thing estrange me from a friend such as 
you ? — No ! To-morrow I shall have the ho- 
nour of waiting on you. 

Farewell thou first of friends, and most ac- 
complished of women : even with all thy lit- 
tle caprices ! 



No. CXLVII. 
TO THE SAME. 

Madam, 

I return your common-place book; I 
have perused it with much pleasure, and 
would have continued my criticisms ; but as 



it seems the critic has forfeited your esteem, 
his strictures must lose their value. 

If it is true that "offences come only from 
the heart," before you I am guiltless. To 
admire, esteem, and prize you. as the most 
accomplished of women, and the first of 
friends — if these are crimes, I am the most 
offending thing alive. 

In a face where I used to meet the kind 
complacency of friendly confidence, now to 
find cold neglect and contemptuous scorn — 
is a wrench that my heart can ill bear. It 
is, however, some kind of miserable good 
luck, that while de haut-en-bas rigour may 
depress an unoffending wretch to the ground, 
it has a tendency to rouse a stubborn some- 
thing in his bosom, which, though it cannot 
heal the wounds of his soul, is at least an 
opiate to blunt their poignancy. 

With the profoundest respect for your abi- 
lities ; the most sincere and ardent regard 
for your gentle heart and amiable manners ; 
and the most fervent wish and prayer for 
your welfare, peace, and bliss, I have the 
honour to be. Madam, your most devoted, 
humble servant. 



No. CXLVIII. 
TO JOHN SYME, ESQ. 

You know that, among other high digni- 
ties, you have the honour to be my supreme 
court of critical judicature, from which there 
is no appeal. 1 enclose you a song which I 
composed since I saw you, and I am going 
to give you the history of it. Do you know, 
that among much that I admire in the cha- 
racters and manners of those great folks 
whom I have now the honour to call my ac- 
quaintances, the O***** family, there is no- 
thing charms me more than Mr. O's uncon- 
cealable attachment to that incomparable 
woman. Did you ever, my dear Syme, meet 
with a man who owed more to the Divine 
Giver of all good things than Mr. O A fine 
fortune, a pleasing exterior, self-evident 
amiable dispositions, and an ingenuous up- 
right mind, and that informed too, much be- 
yond the usual run of young fellows of his 
rank and fortune : and to all this, such a wo- 
man ! — but of her I shall say nothing at all, 
in despair of saying any thing adequate. In 
ray song, I have endeavoured to do justice to 
what would be his feelings, on seeing, in the 
scene I have drawn, the habitation of his 
Lucy. As I am a good deal pleased with 
my performance, I in my first fervour, thought 

of sending it to Mrs. O ; but on second 

thoughts, perhaps what I offer as the honest 
incense of genuine respect, might, from the 



162 



LETTERS. 



well known character of poverty and poetry, 
be construed into some modification or 
other of that servility which my soul ab- 
hors.* 



No. CXLIX. 



TO MISS 



As a pledore of friend -Lip they were bestow- 
ed -, and that circumstance indeed was all 
their merit. Most unhappily for me, that 
merit they no longer possess; and I hope 

that Mrs. 's goodness, v.hich I well 

know, and ever will revere, will not refuse 
this favour to a man whom she once held in 
some degree of estimation. 

With the sinceresl esteem, I have the ho- 
nour to be, Madam, &c. 



Madam, 



Nothing short of a kind of absolute ne- 
cessity could have made me trouble you 
with this letter. Except my ardent and 
just esteem for your sense, taste, and worth, 
every sentiment arising in my breast, as I 
put pen to paper to you is painful. The 
scenes 1 have passed with the friend of my 
soul and his amiable connexions ! the wrench 
at my heart to think that he is gone, for ever 
gone from me, never more to meet in the 
wanderings of a weary world ! and the cut- 
ting reflection of all, that I had most unfor- 
tunately, though most undeservedly, lost the 
confidence of that poul of worth, ere it took 
its flight ! 

These, Madam, are sensations of no ordi- 
nary anguish. — However, you also may be 
offended with some imputed improprieties of 
mine ; sensibility you know 1 possess, and 
sincerity none will deny me. 

To oppose those prejudices which have 
been raised against me, is not the business 
of this letter Indeed it is a warfare I know 
not how to wage. The powers of positive 
vice I can in some degree calculate, and 
against direct malevolence I can be on my 
guard ; but who can estimate the fatuity of 
giddy caprice, or ward off the unthinking 
mischief of precipitate folly .'' 

I have a favour to request of you, Madam; 

and of your sister, Mrs. , through your 

means.* You know that, at the wish of my 
late friend, I made a collection of all my tri- 
fles in verse which I had ever written. — 
There are many of them local, some of them 
puerile and silly, and all of them, unfit for 
the public eye. As I have some little fame 
at stake, a fame that I trust may hve when 
the hate of those " who watch for my halt- 
ing," and the contumelious sneer of those 
whom accident has made my superiors, will, 
with themselves, be gone to the regions of ob- 
livion ; I am uneasy now for the fate of those 
manuscripts.— Will Mrs. have the good- 
ness to destroy them, or return them to me ? 

* The song enclosed was that, given in Poems, 
page 127, beginning, 

O wat ye wha's in yon town .*■ E. 



No. CL. 



TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

2oth February, 1794. 

Canst thou minister to a mind diseased ? 
Canst thou speak peace and rest to a soul 
tossed on a sea of troubles, without one 
friendly star to guide her course, and dread- 
ing that the next surge may overwhelm her ? 
Canst thou give to a frame, tremblingly alive 
as the tortures of suspense, the stability and 
hardihood of the rock that braves the blapt ? 
If thou canst not do the least of these, why 
wouldst thou disturb me in my miseries with 
thy inquiries after me ? 



For these two months, I have not been 
able to lift a pen. My constitution and 
frame were ab origine, blasted with a deep 
incurable taint of hypochondria, which poi- 
sons my existence. Of late, a number of 
domestic vexations, and some pecuniary 
share in the ruin of these * *f * 

* * * * times ; losses which, 
though trifling, were yet what I could ill 
bear, have so irritated me, that my feelings 
at times could only be envied by a reprobate 
spirit listening to the sentence that dooms it 
to perdition. 

Are you deep in the language of consola- 
tion ? I have exhausted in reflection every 
topic of comfort. A heart at ease would 
have been charmed with my sentiments and 
reasonings ; but as to myself, I was like Ju- 
das Iscariot preaching the Gospel : he might 
melt and mould the hearts of those around 
him, but his own kept its native incorrigi- 
bility. 

Still there are two great pillars that bear 
us up, amid the wreck of misfortune and mi- 
sery. The one is composed of the different 
modifications of a certain noble, stubborn 
something in man, known by the names of 
^ courage, fortitude, magnanimity. The other 



LETTERS. 



163 



is made up of those feelings and sentiments, 
which, however the sceptic may deny them, 
or the enthusiast disfigure them, are yet, I 
am convinced, original and component parts 
of the human soul : those senses of the mind, 
if I may be allowed the expression, which 
connect us with, and link us to, those awful 
obscure realities — an all-powerful and equal- 
ly beneficent God ; and a world to come, be- 
yond death and the grave. The tirst gives 
the nerve of combat, while a ray of hope 
beams on the field : — the last pours the balm 
of comfort into the wounds which time can 
never cure. 

I do not remember, my dear Cunningham, 
that you and I ever talked on the subject of 
religibn at all I know some who laugh at 
it, as the trick of the crafty /c?^?, to lead the 
undiscerning many; or at most as an un- 
certain obscurity, which mankind can never 
know any thing of, and with which tliey are 
fools if they give themselves much to do. 
Nor would I quarrel with a man for his irre- 
ligion any more than T would for his want of 
a musical ear. I would regret that he was 
shut out from what, to me and to others, 
were such superlative sources of enjoyment. 
It is in this point of view, and for this rea- 
son, that I will deeply imbue the mind of 
every child of mine with religion. If my 
son should happen to be a man of feeling, 
sentiment, and taste, I shall thus add largely 
to his enjoyments. Let me flatter myself 
that this sweet little fellow, who is just now 
running dbnut my desk, will be a man of a 
melting, ardent, glowing heart ; and an ima- 
gination, delighted with the painter, and 
rapt with the poet. Let me figure him wan- 
dering out in a sweet evening, to inhale the 
balmy gales, and enjoy the growing luxu- 
riance of the spring ! himself the while in 
the blooming youth of life. He looks abroad 
on all nature, and through nature up to na- 
ture's God. His soul, b}' swift delighting 
degrees, is rapt above this sublunary sphere. 
until he can be silent no longer, and bursts 
out into the glorious enthusiasm of Thom- 
son, 

" These, as they change, Almighty Father, 
these 

Are but the varied God. — The rolling year 

Is full of thee." 

And so on in all the spirit and ardour of 
that charming hymn. 

These are no ideal pleasures; they are real 
delights: and I ask what of the delights 
among the sons of men are superior, not to 
say equal, to them ? And they have this 
precious, vast addition, that conscious virtue 
stamps them for her own ; and lays hold on 
them to bring herself into the presence of a 
witnessing, judging-, and approving God. 1 

44 



No. CLI. 



TO MRS. R 



Supposes hiinselj to le writing from the Dead 
to the Living. 

Madam, 

1 dare say this is the first epistle you 
ever received from this nether world. 1 
write you from the regions of hell, amid the 
horrors of the damned. The time and man- 
ner of my leaving your earth I do not exact- 
ly know, as 1 took my departure in the heat 
of a fever of intoxication, contracted at your 
too hospitable mansion ; but, on my arrival 
here, I was fairly tried and sentenced to en- 
dure the purgatorial tortures of this infernal 
confine for the ispace of ninety-nine years, 
eleven months, and twenty-nine days, and all 
on account of the impropriety of n:iy conduct 
yesternight under 3'our roof. Here am I. 
laid on a bed of pitiless furze, with my aching 
head reclined on a pillow of ever-piercing 
thorn ; while an infernal tormentor, wrinkled, 
and old, and cruel, his name T think is Recol- 
lection, with a whip of scorpions, forbids 
peace or rest to approach me, and keeps an- 
guish eternally awake. Still, Madam, if t 
could in any measure be reinstated in the 
good opinion of the fair circle whom my con- 
duct last night so much injured, 1 think it 
would be an alleviation to my tormonts. — 
For this reason I trouble you with this letter. 
To the men of the company [ will make no 
apology. — Your husband, who insisted on my 
drinking more than I chose, has no right to 
blame me ; and the other gentlemen were 
partakers of my guilt. But to you, Madam, 
1 have much to apologize. Your good opi- 
nion I valued as one of the greatest acquisi- 
tions 1 had made on earth, and I was truly a 

beast to forfeit it. There was a Miss I , 

too, a woman of fine sense, gentle and unas- 
suming manners — do make, on my part, a 

miserable d d wretch's best apology to 

her. A Mrs. G , a charming woman, 

did me the honour to be prejudiced in my fa- 
vour : — this makes me hope that I have not 
outraged her beyond all forgiveness. — To all 
the other ladies please present my humblest 
contrition for my conduct, and my petition 
for their gracious pardon. O, all ye powers 
of decency and decorum! whisper to them, 
that my errors, though j>redt, were involun- 
tary — that an intoxicated man is the vilest of 
beasts — that it was not my nature to be bru- 
tal to any one — that to be rude to a woman, 
when in my senses, was impossible with m«j 
— but— 



Regret ! Remorse ! Shame ! ye three hell- 
hounds that cTer dog my steps and bay at 
trty heels, spare me 1 spare me ' 



164 



LETTERS. 



Forgive the offences, and pity the perdi- 
tion of, 

Madam, 

Your humble slave. 



No. CLII. 

TO Mrs. dunlop. 

5th December, 1795. 

My Dear Friend, 

As I am in a complete Decemberish hu- 
mour, gloomy, sullen, stupid, as even the 
deity of dullness herself could wish, I shall 
not drawl out a heavy letter with a number 
of heavier apologies for my late silence. — 
Only one I shall mention, because I know 
you will sympathise in it : these four months, 
a sweet little girl, my youngest child, has 
been so ill, that every day, a week or less, 
threatened to terminate her existence. There 
had much need be many pleasures annexed 
to the states of husband and father, for God 
knows they have many peculiar cares. I can- 
not describe to you the anxious sleepless 
hours, these ties frequently give me 1 see 
a train of helpless little folks ; me and my ex- 
ertions all their stay ; and on what a brittle 
thread does the life of man hang ! If I am 
nipt off at the command of fate, even in all 
the vigour of manhood as I am — such things 
happen every day — gracious God ! what 
would become of my little flock ? 'Tis here 
that I envy your people of fortune ! A father 
on his death-bed, taking an everlasting leave 
ef his children, has indeed wo enough ; but 
the man of competent fortune leaves his sons 
and daughters independency and friends; 
while I — but 1 shall run distracted if I think 
any longer on the subject ! 

To leave talking of the matter so gravely, 
I shall sing with the old Scots ballad — 

" O that I had ne'er been married 

I would never had nae care ; 
Now I've gotten wife and bairns, 

They cry crowdie ! evermair. 

Cxowdie ! ance ! crowdie twice; 

Crowdie ! three times in a day : 
An ye crowdie ony mair, 

Ye'll crowdie a' my meal away." 



December 24th. 

We have had a brilliant theatre here ihis 
season ; only, as all other business has, it 
experiences a stagnation of trade from the 
epidemical complaint of the country, want 



of cash. I mention our theatre merely to lug 
in an occasional Address which I wrote for 
the benefit night of one of the actresses, and 
which is as follows.* 

25th, Christmas Morning. 

This my much-loved friend is a morning 
of wishes; accept mine — so heaven hear me 
as they are sincere ! that blessings may at- 
tend your steps, and affliction know you not I 
in the charming words of my favourite au- 
thor, The Man of Feeling. " May the Great 
Spirit bear up the weight of thy gray hairs, 
and blunt the arrow that brings them rest !" 

Now that I talk of authors, bow do you 
like Cow per.'' Is not the Tusk a glorious 
poem .-* The religion of the Task, bating a 
few scraps of Calvinistic divinity, is the re- 
ligion of God and iNature ; the religion that 
exalts, that ennobles man. Were not you to 
send me your Zeluco, in return for mine .'* — 
Tell me how you like my marks and notes 
through the book. 1 would not give a far- 
thing for a book, unless I were at liberty to 
blot it with my criticisms. 

I have lately collected, for a friend's pe- 
rusal, all my letters. I mean those which I 
first sketched in a rough drau^jht. and after- 
wards wrote out fair. On looking over some 
old musty papers, which, fr<im time to time, 
I had parcelled by, as trash that were scarce 
worth preserving, and which yet at the same 
time I did not care to destroy ; I discovered 
many of these rude sketches, a!id have writ- 
ten and am writing them out, in a bound 
MS. for my friend's library. As I wrote al- 
ways to you the rhapsody of the moment, I 
cannot find a single scroll for you, except 
one, about the commencement of our ac- 
quaintance. If there were any possible con- 
veyance, I would send you a perusal of my 
book. 



No. CLIIL 
TO MRS. DUNLOP, 

IN LONDON. 

Dumfries, 2i th December, 1795. 

I have been prodigiously disappointed in 
this London journey of yours. In the first 
place, when your last to me reached Dum- 
fries, I was in the country, and did not re- 
turn until too late to answer yotir letter ; in 
the next place, I thought y<>u would certain- 
ly take this route ; and now I know not what 
has become of you, or whether this may 

* The Address is given in p. 84, of the Poems. 



LETTERS. 



165 



reach you at all. God grant that it may find 
you and yours in prospering health and good 
spirits ! Do let me hear from you the soon- 
est possible. 

As I I'.ope to get a frank from m}^ friend 
Captain Miller, I shall, every leisure hour, 
take up the pen, and gossip away whatever 
comes first, prose or poesy, sermon or song. 
In this last article I have abounded of late. 
I have often mentioned to you a superb pub- 
lication of Scottish songs which is making 
its appearance in your great metropolis, and 
where I have the honour to preside over the 
Scottish verse as no less a personage than 
Peter Pindar does over the English. I wrote 
the following for a favourite air. See the 
Song entitled^ Lord Gregory, Poems, p. 10b. 

December 29tk. 

Since I began this letter, I have been ap- 
pointed to act in the capacity of supervisor 
here ; and I assure you, what with the load 
of business, and what with that business being 
new to me, I could scarcely have command- 
ed ten minutes to have spoken to you, had 
you been in town, much less to have written 
you an epistle. This appointment is only 
temporary, and during the illness of the pre- 
sent incumbent ; but I look forward to an 
early period when I shall be appointed in full 
form ; a consummation devoutly to be wish- 
ed ! My political sins seem to be forgiven 
me. 



This is the season (New-year's day is now 
my date) of wishing ; and mine are most fer- 
vently oflEered up for you ! May life to you 
be a positive blessing while it lasts for your 
own sake ; and that it may yet be greatly 
prolonged, is my wish for my own sake, and 
for the sake of the rest of your friends! — 
What a transient business is life! Very 
lately I was a boy ; but t'other day I was a 
young man ; and I already begin to feel the 
rigid fibre and stiffening joints of old age 
coming fast o'er my frame. With all my fol- 
lies of youth, and I fear, a fcA? vices of man- 
hood, still I congratulate myself on having 
had, in early days, religion strongly impress- 
ed on my mind. I have nothing to say to 
any one as to which sect he belongs to, or 
what creed he believes; but I look on the 
man, who is firmly persuaded of infinite wis- 
dom and goodness superintending and direct- 
ing every circumstance that can happen in 
his lot — I felicitate such a man as having a 
solid foundation for his mental enjoyment ; a 
firm prop and sure stay in the hour of diffi- 
culty, trouble, and distress; and a never- 
failing anchor of hope, when he looks beyond 
the grave. 



Jannarr) VHth. 

You will have seen our worthy and inge- 
nious friend the Doctor, long ere this. I 
hope he is well, and beg to be remembered 
to him. I have just been reading over again, 
I dare say for the hundred and fiftieth time, 
his View of Society and Manners ; and still I 
read it with delight. His humour is per- 
fectly original— it is neither the humour of 
Addison, nor Swift, nor Sterne, nor of any 
body but Dr. Moore. By the by, you have 
deprived me of Zeluco ; remember that, 
when you are disposed to rake up the sins of 
my neglect from among the ashes of my la- 
ziness. 

He has paid me a pretty complimeutj by 
quoting me in his last publication.* 



No. CLIV. 

TO MRS. R . 

2Qth January f 179a 

I cannot express my gratitude to you 
for allowing me a longer perusal oi Anachar- 
sis. In fact I never met with a book that 
bewitched me so much ; and I, as a member 
of the library, must warmly feel the obliga- 
tion you have laid us under. Indeed to me, 
the obligation is stronger than to any other 
individual of our society ; as Jinacharsis is 
an indispensable desideratum to a son of the 
muses. 

The health you wished me in your morn- 
ing's card, is, I think, flown from me for 
ever. I have not been able to leave my bed 
to-day till about an hour ago. These wick- 
edly unlucky advertisements I lent (I did 
wrong) to a friend, and I am ill able to go 
in quest of him. 

The Muses have not quite forsaken me. 
The following detached stanzas 1 intend to 
interweave in some disastrous tale of a shep- 
herd. 



No. CLV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

31s; January, 179G. 

These many months you have been two 
packets in my debt — what sin of ignorance 



* F.dvrard, 



166 



LETTIiKS. 



I have coinniitted against so highly valued a 
iViend I am utterly at a loss to guess. Alas ! 
Madam ! ill ean 1 afford, at this time, to be 
deprived of any of the small remnant of my 
pleasures. I have lately drunk deep of the 
cup of affliction. The autumn robbed me o1 
my only daughter and darlinw child, and tiiat 
at a distance too, and so rapidly, as to put h 
out of my power to pay the last duties to her. 
I had scarcely begun to recover from th;it 
shock, when 1 became myself the victim of a 
most severe rheumatic fever, and long the 
die spun doubtful ; until, after many week:, 
of a sick bed, it seems to have turned up life, 
and I am beginning to crawl across my room, 
and once indeed have been before my own 
door in the street. 

When pleasure fascinates the mental sight, 

Affliction purifies the visual ray, 
Religion hails the drear, the untried night, 

And shuts, for ever shuts, life's doubtful day ! 



No. CLVI. 

TO MRS. R , 

If ho had desired him to go to the Birth-Day 
Assemhlij on that day to show his loyalty. 

4th June, 1796. 

I am in such miserable health as to be 
utterly incapable of showing my loyalty in 
any way. Racked as I am with rheuma- 
tisms, I meet every face with a greeting like 
that of Balak to Balaam—'' Come, curse me 
Jacob ; and come defy me, Israel !'' So say 
I— come, curse me that east wind; and 
come, defy me the north! Would you have 
me, in such eircurastances, copy you out a 
love song .'' 



I may, perhaps, see you on Saturday, but 
I will not be at the ball.— Why should I ! 
" Man delights not me, nor woman either ?" 
Can you supply me with the song, Let us all 
be unhappy together — do if you can, and 
oblige le pauvrc miserable. 

R. B. 



tion of the literary circle you mention; a Ji 
terary circle inferior to none in the two king- 
doms. Alas ! my friend, I fear the voice of the 
bard will soon be heard among you no more. 
For these eight or ten months I have been 
•liling, sometimes bedfast, and sometimes 
not ; but these last three months, I have 
lieen tortured with an exes uciating rheuma- 
ism, which has reduced me to nearly the last 
stage. You actually would not know me if 
you saw me — Pale, emaciated, and so feeble 
as occasionally to need help from my chair •. 
my spirits fled ! fled ! — but I can nu more on 
the subject — only the medical folks tell me 
thai my last and only chance is bathing, and 
country quarters, and riding. The deuce of 
the matter is this ; when an exciseman is off 
duty, his salary is reduced to 35/. instead of 
bOl. — What way, in the name of thrift, shall 
I maintain mj'self, and keep a horse in coun- 
try quarters, with a wife and five children at 
home, on 3bl.? I mention this, because I 
had intended to beg your utmost interest, 
and that of all the friends you can muster, to 
move our Commissioners of Excise to grant 
me the full salary — I dare say you know them 
all personally. If they do not grant it, I must 
lay my account with an exit truly en poete, 
if I die not of disease, I must perish with 
hunger. 

I have sent you one of the songs ; the other 
my memory does not serve me with, and I 
have no copy here ; but I shall be at home 
soon, when I will send it to you. — .Apropos 
to being at home, Mrs. Burns threatens in a 
week or two to add one more to my paternal 
charge, which, if of the right gender, I in- 
tend shall be introduced to the world by the 
respectable designation of Alexander Cun- 
ningham Burns. My last was James Glen- 
cairn, so you can have no objection to the 
company of nobility. Farewell ! 



No. CLVII. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Brow J Sea-bathing Quarters, 7th July, 1796. 

Mv Dear Cunningham, 

I received yours here this moment, and 
am indeed highly flattered with the approba- 



No. CLVIII. 

TO MRS. BURNS. 

Brow, Thursday. 
My Deabest Love, 

I delayed writing until I could tell you 
what eftect sea-bathing was likely to pro- 
duce. It would be injustice to deny that it 
has eased my pains, and I think, has strength- 
ened me ; but my appetite is still extremely 
bad. No flesh nor fish can I swallow ; por- 
ridge and milk are the only thing I can taste. 
I am very happy to hear, by Miss Jess Le- 
wars, that you are all well. My very best 
and kindest compliments to her, and to all 
the children. I will see you on Sunday. 
Your aflectionate husband, 
R. B. 



LETTERS. 



167 



i\o. CLIX. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 



Brow, I2th July, 179G. 



Madam, 



I have written you so often without re- 
ceiving any answer, that I would not trouble 
you again, but for the circumstances in 
which I am. An illness which has long hung 
about me, in all probability will speedily send 
me beyond that bourn whence no traveller re- 
turns. Your friendship, with which for 
many years you honoured me, was a friend- 
ship dearest to my soul. Your conversa- 
tion, and especially your correspondence, 
were at once highly entertaining and in- 
structive. With what pleasure did I use to 



break up the seal ! The remembrance yet 
adds one pulse more to my poor palpitating 
heart. Farewell ! ! !* 

R. B. 



* The above is supposed to be the last produc- 
tion of Robe. ! Lhirsis u ho <!ied on the 21st of the 
month, nine days afrtrwards. He had, however, 
tlie pleasure of receiving a satisfactory explana- 
tion of his friend's silence, and an assurance of 
the continuance of her friendship to his widow 
and children ; an assurance that has been am- 
ply fulfilled. 

It is probable that the greater part of her let- 
ters to him were destroyed by our Bard about 
the time that this last was written. He did not 
foresee that his own letters to her were to appear 
in print, nor conceive the disappointment that 
will be felt, that a few of this excellent lady's 
have not served to enrich and adorn the collec- 
tion. E. 



CORRESPONDENCE 



WITH 



MR. GEORGE THOMSON. 



P&EFACE. 



The remaining part of this Volume, consists principally of the Correspondence be- 
tween Mr. BuKNs and Mr. Thomson, on the subject of the beautiful Work projected and 
executed by the latter, the nature of which is explained in the first number of the following 
series.* The undertaking of Mr. Thomson, is one in which the public may be congratu- 
lated in various points of view ; not merely as having collected the finest Scottish songs and 
airs of past times, but as having given occasion to a number of original songs of our Bard, 
which equal or surpass the former efforts of the pastoral muses of Scotland, and which, if 
wo mistake not, may be safely compared with the lyric poetry of any age or country. The 
letters of Mr. Burns to Mr. Thomson include the songs he presented to him, some of which 
appear in different stages of their progress ; and these letters will be found to exhibit occa- 
sionally his notions of song-writing, ami his opinions on various subjects of taste and criti- 
cism. These opinions, it will be observed, were called forth by the observations of his cor- 
respondent, Mr. Thomson; and without the letters of this gentleman, those of Burns would 
have been often unintelligible. He has therefore yielded to the earnest request of the 
Trustees of the familj' of the poet, to sufi*er them to appear in their natural order ; and, in- 
dependently of the illustration they give to the letters of our Bard, it is not to be doubted 
that their intrinsic merit will ensure them a reception from the public, far beyond what Mr. 
Thomson's modesty would permit him to suppose. The whole of this correspondence was 
arranged for the press by Mr. Thomson, and has been printed with little addition or 
variation. 

To avoid increasing the bulk of the work unnecessarily, we have in general referred the 
reader for the Song to the page in the Poems where it occurs ; and have given the verses 
entire, only when they differ in some respects from the adopted set. 



No. I. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 



Edinburgh, September, 1792. 



Sir, 



For some years past, I have with a friend 
or two, employed many leisure hours in se- 
lecting and collating the most favourite of 
our national melodies for publication. We 
have engaged Pleyel, the most agreeable 
composer living, to put accompaniments to 
these, and also to compose an instrumental 



prelude and conclusion to each air, the better 
to fit them for concerts, both public and pri- 
vate. To render this work perfect, we are 
desirous to have the poetry improved, wher- 
ever it seems unworthy of the music, and 
that it is so in many instances, is allowed by 
every one conversant with our musical col- 
lections. The editors of these seem in ge- 
neral to have depended on the music proving 
an excuse for the verses : and hence, some 
charmmg melodies are united to mere non- 
sense and doggerel, while others are accom- 
modated with rhymes so loose and indelicate, 
as cannot be sung in decent company. To 
remove this reproach would be an easy t^k 



* This work is entitled, " A Select Collection of original Scottish Airs for the Voice : to which 
are added Introductory and Concluding Symphonies and Accompaniments for the Piano Forte and 
Violin, by Pleyel and Kozeluch : with select and characteristic Ver.ses, by the most admired Scot- 
tish Poets," &c. 



LETTERS. 



169 



to the author of The Cotter^ s Satui day Night; 
and, for the honour of Caledonia, I would 
fain hope he may be induced to take up the 
pen. If so, we shall be enabled to present 
the public with a collection infinitely more 
interesting than any that has yet appeared 
and acceptable to all persons of taste, whe- 
ther they wish for correct melodies, delicate 
accompaniments, or characteristic verses. — 
We will esteem your poetical assistance a 
particular favour, besides paying any reason- 
able price you shall please to demand for it. 
Profit is quite a secondary consideration 
with us, and we are resolved to spare nei- 
ther pains nor expense on the publication. 
Tell me frankly, then, whether you will de- 
vote your leisure to writing twenty or twen- 
ty-five songs, suited to the particular melo- 
dies which I am prepared to send you. A 
few songs, exceptionable only in some of 
their verses, i will likewise submit to your 
consideration ; leaving it to you, either to 
mend these, or make new songs in their 
stead. It is superfluous to assure you that I 
have no intention to displace any of the ster- 
ling old songs ; those onl\ will be removed, 
which appear quite silly, or absolutely inde- 
cent. Even these shall all be examined by 
Mr. Burns, and if he is of opinion that any 
of them are deserving of the music, in such 
cases no divorce shall take place. 

Relying on the letter accompanying this, 
to be forgiven f^r the liberty I have taken in 
addressing you, I am, with great esteem, 
Sir, your most obedient humble servant, 

G. THOJMSON. 



No. II. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 



Dumfries, 16th September, 1792. 



Sir, 



I have just this moment got your letter 
As the request you make to me will positive- 
ly add to my enjoyments in complying with 
it, I shall enter into your undertaking with 
all the small portion of abilities I have, 
strained to their utmost exertion by the im- 
pulse of enthusiasm. Only, don't hurry me: 
" Deil take the hindmost," is by no means 
the cri de guerre of my muse. Will you, as 
I am inferior to none of you in enthusiastic 
attachment to the poetry and music of old 
Caledonia, and, since you request it, have 
cheerfully promised my mite of assistance — 
will you let me have a list of your airs, witli 
the first line of the printed verses you intend 
for theni, that I may have an opportunity of 
suggesting any alteration that may occur to 
me. You know 'tis in the way of my trade ; 



still leaving you, gentlemen, the undoubted 
riglit of publishers, to approve, or reject, at 
your pleasure, for your own publication. — 
Aprojjos ! if you are for English verses, 
there is, on my part, an end ol the matter. 
Whether in the simplicity of the ballad, or 
the pathos of the song, I can only hope to 
please myself in being allowed at least a 
sprinkling of our native tongue. English 
verses, particularly the Works of Scotsmen, 
that have merit, are certainly very eligible. 
Twi edside — Jih^ the poor shepherd's mourn- 
ful fate — M, Chloris could I now hut sit, S^c. 
you cannot mend ; but such insipid stuff as, 
To Fanny f/iir could I impart, <^c. usually set 
to The Mill Mill O, is a disgrace to the col- 
lection in which it has already appeared, and 
would doubly disgrace a collection that will 
have the very superior merit of yours. But 
u7ore of this in the farther prosecution of the 
business, if I am called on for my strictures 
and amendments — I say, amendments : for I 
will not alter except where I myself at least 
think that I amend. 

As to any remuneration, you may think 
my songs either above ur below price ; for 
they shall absolutely be the one or the other. 
In the honest enthusiasm with which I em- 
bark in your undertaking, to talk of money, 
wages, fee, hire, &c. would be downright 
prostitution of soul ! A proof of each of the 
songs that I compose or amend, I shall re- 
ceive as a favour In the rustic phrase of 
the season, " Gude speed the wark !" 

I am, Sir, your very humble servant, 

R. BURNS. 

P. S. I have some particular reasons for 
wishing my interference to be known as little 
as possible. 



No. III. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, XZth October, 1792. 
Dear Sir, 

I received, with much satisfaction, your 
pleasant and obligi.ng letter, and I return my 
warmest acknowledgments for the enthusi- 
asm with which you have entered into our 
undertaking. We have now no doubt of 
being able to produce a collection highly de- 
serving ot public attention in all respects. 

I agree with you in thinking English 
verhcs that have merit, very eligiblf, wher- 
ever new verses are necessary ; because the 
English becomes every year more and more 
the language of Scotland ; but if you mean 
that no English verses, except those by Scot- 
tish authors, ought to be admitted, I am half 



170 



LETTERS. 



inclined to differ from you. I should consi- 
der it unpardonable to sacrifice one good 
song in the Scottish dialect, to make room 
for English verses ; but if we can select a 
few excellent ones suited to the unprovided 
or ill-provided airs, would it not be the very 
bigotry of literary patriotism to reject such, 
merely because the authors were born sou^h 
of the Tweed.? Our sweet air, My .N'annie 
O, which in the collections is joined to the 
poorest stuff that Allan Ramsay ever wrot", 
beginning, While some for pleasure pawn 
their health, answers so tinely to Dr. Percy's 
beautiful song, JVancy wilt thou go with. 
Tne, that one would think he wrote it on pur- 
pose for the air. However, it is not at all 
our wish to confine you to English verses ; 
you shall f.eely be allowed a sprinkling uf 
your native tongue, as you elegantly express 
it ; and moreover, we will p;»tiently wait your 
own time. One thing only I beg, which is, 
that however gay and sportive the muse 
may be, she may always be decent. Let her 
not write what beauty would blu.^h to speak, 
nor wound that charming delicacy which 
forms the most precious dowry of our daugh- 
ters. I do hot conceive the song to be the 
most proper vehicl • for witty and brilliant 
conceits : simplicity, I believe, sh<mld be its 
prominent feature ; but, in some of our 
songs, the writers have confounded simpli- 
city with coarseness and vulgarity; although 
between the one and the other, as Dr. Beat- 
tie well observes, there is as great a differ- 
ence as between a plain suit of clothes and 
a bundle of rags. The humorous ballad, or 
pathetic complaint, is best suited to our art- 
less melodies; and more interestmg, indeed, 
in all songs, than the most pointed wit, daz- 
zling descriptions, and flowery fancies. 

With these trite observations, I send you 
eleven of the songs, for which it is my wish 
to substitute others of your writing. I shall 
soon transmit the rest, and, at the saii:e time, 
a prospectus of the whole collection ; and 
you may believe we will receive any hints 
that you are so kind as to give for im- 
proving the work, with the greatest pleasure 
and thankfulness. 

I remain, dear Sir, &c. 



No. IV. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMPSON. 

My Dear Sir, 

Let me tell you, that you are too fasti- 
dious in your ideas of songs and ballads. 1 
own that your criticisms are just ; the songs 
you specify in your list have all, but one, tht- 
faults you remark in them; but who shall 
mend the matter .•* Who shall rise up and 
say — Go to, I will make a better .'' For in- 



stance, on reading over the Lea-rig, I imme- 
diately set about trying my hand on it, and, 
after all, I could make nothing more of it 
than the following, which, Heaven knows, is 
poor enough : 

When o'er the hill the eastern star, 

Tells bughtin time is near my jo ; 
And owsen frae the furrow'd field, 

Return sae dowf and weary O ; 
Down by the burn where scented birks* 

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, 
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie O. 

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, 

I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O, 
If thro' that glen I gaed to thee. 

My ain kind dearie O. 
Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild,t 

And I were ne'er sae wearie O, 
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie O. 

Your observation as to the aptitude of Dr. 
Percy's ballad to the air JVannie O, is just. It 
is besides, perhaps, the most beautiful ballad 
in the English language. But let me remark 
to you, that, in the sentiment and style of 
our Scottish airs, there is a pastoral simpli- 
city, a something that one may call the Do- 
ric style and dialect of vocal music, to which 
a dash of our native tongue and manners is 
particularly, nay peculiarly apposite. For 
this reason, and, upon my honour, for this 
reason alone, I am of opinion (but, as I have 
told you before, my opinion is yours, freely 
yours, to approve or reject, as you please) 
that my ballad oi JVannie O, might, perhaps, 
do for one set of verses to the tune. Now 
don't let it enter into your head, that you are 

* For " scented bjrks," in some copies, " bir- 
ken buds." E. 

f In the copy transmitted to Mr. Thomson, in- 
stead of wjW was inserted ivet But in one of 
the manuscripts, probabl)' written afterwards, 
wet was changed into wild ; evidently a great 
improvement. The lovers might meet on the 
lea-rig, " although the night were ne'er so wild" 
tliatis, although the summer-wind blew, the sky 
lowered, and the thunder murmured : such cir- 
cumstances might render their meeting still more 
interesting. But if the night were actually wet, 
why should they meet on the lea-rig .-* On a wet 
night the imagination cannot contemplate their 
situation there with any complacency —rTibul- 
his. and, after him, Hammond, has conceived 
a happier situation for lovers on a wet night. 
■Vobably Burns had in his mind the verse of an 
old Scottish Song, in which wet and iveary are 
naturally enough conjoined. 

" When my ploughman comes hame atev'n 

He's often wet and weary ; 
Cast off the wet, put on the dry, 

And gae to bed my deary." 



LETTERS. 



171 



under any necessity of taking my verses. I 
have long ago made up my mind as to my 
own reputation in the business of authorship; 
and have nothing to be pleased or offended 
at, in your adoption or rejection of my 
verses. Though you should reject one half 
of what I give you, I shall be pleased with 
your adoptmg the other half, and shall con- 
tinue to serve you with the same assiduity. 

In the printed copy of my Nannie 0, the 
name of the river is horridly prosaic, I will 
alter it. 

" Behind yon hills where Lugar flows.". 

Girvan is the name of the river that suits 
the idea of the stanza best, but Lugar is the 
most agreeable modulation of syllables. 

I will soon give you a great many more 
remarks on this business; but I have just 
now an opportunity of conveying you this 
scrawl, free of postage, an expense that it is 
ill able to pay : so, with my best compliments 
to honest Allan, Good be wi' you, &c. 

Friday night. 



Saturday morning. 

As I find I have still an hour to spare this 
morning before my conveyance goes away, 
I will give you Nannie O, at length. See 
Poems, p. 108. 

Your remarks on Ewe-bughts, Marion, are 
just ; still it has obtained a place among our 
more classical Scottish Songs ; and what 
with many beauties in its composition, and 
more prejudices in its favour, you will not 
find it easy to supplant it. 

In my very early years, when I was think- 
ing of going to the West Indies, I took the 
following farewell of a dear girl. It is quite 
trifling, and has nothingr of the merits of 
Ewe-bughts ; but it will fill up this page. — 
You must know, that all my earHer love- 
songs were the breathings of ardent pas- 
sion ; and though it might have been easy 
in after-times to have given them a polish, 
yet thai polish, to me, whose they were, and 
who perhaps alone cared for them, would 
have defaced the legend of ray heart, which 
was so faithfully inscribed on them. Their 
uncouth simplicity was, as they say of wines, 
their race. 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
And leave auld Scotia's shore ? 

See Poems, p. 149. 

Galla Water, and Auld' Rob Morris, I 
think, will most probab'iv be the next sub- 

45 



ject of my musings. Hovvever, even on my 
verses, speak out your criticisms with equal 
frankness. My wish is, not to stand aloof, 
the uncomplying bigot of opiniatrcte, but 
cordially to join issue with yon in the fur- 
therance of the work. 



No. V. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

jYovember 8th, 1792. 

If you mean, my dear Sir, that all the 
songs in your collection shall be poetry of the 
first merit, I am afraid you will find more dif- 
ficulty in the undertaking than you are aware 
of. There is a peculiar rhythmus in many 
of our airs, and a necessity of adapting sylla- 
bles to the emphasis, or what I would call the 
feature notes of the tune, that cramp the 
poet, and lay him under almost insuperable 
difficulties. For instance, in the air. My 
wift's a wanton wee thing, if a few lines 
smooth and pretty can be adapted to it, it is 
all you can expect. The following were 
made extempore to it, and though, on fur- 
ther study, I might give you something more 
profound, yet it might not suit the light- 
horse gallop of the air so well as this ran- 
dom clink 

MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE 
THING. 

She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing. 

See Poems, p. 106. 

I have just been looking over the Collier's 
bonny Dochterj and if the following rhapso- 
dy, which 1 composed the other day, on a 

charming Ayrshire girl, Miss , as she 

passed through this place to England, will 
suit your taste better than the Collier Las- 
sie, fall on and welcome. 

O saw ye bonnie Lesley 
As she gaed o'er the border .•' 

See Poems, p. 150. 

I have hitherto deferred the sublimer, 
more pathetic airs, until more leisure, as 
they will take and deserve, a greater effort. 
However, they are all put into your hands, 
as clay into the hands of the potter, to make 
one vessel to honour, and another to disho- 
nour. Farewell, &c. 



172 



LETTERS. 



No. VI. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Inclosing the Song on Highland Mary. 
See Poems, p. 147. 



lith November, 1792. 



My Dear Sir, 



I agree with you that the song, Katha- 
rine. Ogie, is very poor stuff, and unworthy, 
altogether unworthy, of so beautiful an air. 
I tried to mond it, but the awkward sound 
Ogie recurring so often in the rhyme, spoils 
every attempt at introducing sentiment into 
the piece. The foregoing song pleases my- 
self, I think it is in ray happiest manner ; 
you will see at first glance that it suits the 
air. The subject of my song is one of the 
most interesting passages of ray youthful 
days ; and I own that I should be much flat- 
tered to see the verses set to an air, which 
would ensure celebrity. Perhaps, after all, 
'tis the still glowing prejudice of my heart, 
that throws a borrowed lustre over the me- 
rits of the composition. 

I have partly taken your idea o£ Auld Rob 
Morris. I have adopted the two first verses, 
and am going on with the song on a new 
plan, which promises pretty well. I take up 
one or another, just as the bee of the mo- 
ment buzzes in my bonnet-lug ; and do you, 
sans ceremonie, make what use you choose of 
the productions. Adieu ! &c. 



No. vn. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh) November, 1792. 

Dear Sir, 

I was just going to write to you that on 
meeting with your Nannie, I had fallen vio- 
lently in love with her. I thank you, there- 
fore, for sending the charming rustic to me, 
in the dress you wish her to appear before 
the public. She does you great credit, and 
will soon be admitted into the best company . 

I regret that your song for the Lea-rig is 
so short; the air is easy, soon sung, and very 
pleasing ; so that, if the singer stops at the 
end of two stanzas, it is a pleasure lost ere 
it is well possessed. 



Although a dash of our native tongue and 

manners is dou^^'-~ "' ' ' ' 

and appropriate 



the very Flowers of English Song, well 
adapted to those melodies, which in England 
at least will be the means of recommending 
them to still greater attention than Ihey have 
procured there. But you will observe, my 
plan is, that every air shall, in the first place, 
have verses wholly by Scottish poets : and 
that those of English writers shall follow 
as additional songs, for the choice of the 
singer. 

What you say of the Eioe-bvghts is just; 
I admire it. and never meant to supplant it. 
All I requested was, that you would try your 
hand on some of the inferior stanzas, which 
are apparently no part of the original song : 
but this I do not urge, because the song is of 
sufficient length though those inferior stan- 
zas be omitted, as they will be by the singer 
of taste. You must not think I expect all 
the songs to be of superlative merit ; that 
were an unreasonable expectation. I am 
sensible that no poet can sit down doggedly 
to pen verses, and succeed well at all 
times. 

I am highly pleased with your humourous 
and amorous rhapsody on Bonnie Lesley ; it 
is a thousand times better than the Collier's 
Lassie. " The deil he could na scaith Uiee," 
is an eccentric and happy thought. Do you 
not think, however, that the names of such 
old heroes as Alexander, sound rather queer, 
unless in pompous or mere burlesque verse ? 
Instead of the line " And never made ano- 
ther," I would humbly suggest, " And ne'er 
made sic anither ;" and I would fain have 
you substitute some other line for " Return 
to Caledonia," in the last verse, because I 
think this alteration of the orthography, arid 
of the sound of Caledonia, disfigures the 
word, and renders it Hudibrastic. 

Of the other song, My wife's a winsome 
wee thing, I think the first eight lines very 
good, but 1 do not admire the other eight, 
because four of them are a bare repetition of 
the first verse. I have been trying to spin a 
stanza, but could make nothing better than 
the following : do you mend it, or, as Yorick 
did with the love-letter, whip it up in your 
own way. 

O leeze me on my wee thing ; 
My bonnie blythesorae wee thing ; 
Sae lang's I hae my wee thing, 
I'll think my lot divine. 

Tho' warld's care we share o't, 
And may see meickle mairo't; 
Wi' her I'll blithely bear it, 
And ne'er a word repine. 



I a uauij ui uur iiiiiive longue anu 

I doubtless peculiarly congenial 

^^-^riate to our melodies, yet I shall 

be able to present a considerable number of 



You perceive, my dear Sir, I avail myself 
of the liberty which you condescend to allow 
me, by speaking freely what I think. Be 



LETTERS. 



173 



assured it is not my disposition to pick out 
the faults of any poem or picture I see; my 
first and chief o1>ject is to discover and be 
delighted with the beauties of the piece. If 
I sit down to examine criiically, and at lei- 
sure, what perhaps you have written in haste, 
I may happen to observe careless lines, the 
re-perusal of which might lead you to im- 
prove them. The wren will often see what 
has been overlooked by the eagle. I remain 
yours faithfully, &c. 

P. S. Your verses upon Highland Mary are 
just come to hand : they breathe the genuine 
spirit of poetry, and, like the music, will last 
for ever. Such verses, united to such an 
air, with the delicate harmony of Pleyel su- 
peradded, might form a treat worthy of being 
presented to Apollo himself. I have heard 
the sad story of your Mary ; you always seem 
inspired when you write of her. 



No. VIII. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
Dumfries, \st December, 1792. 

Your alterations of my Nannie are 
perfectly right. So are those of My loife'sa 
wanton wee thing. Your alteration of the 
second stanza is a positive improvement. 
Now, my dear Sir, with the freedom which 
characterizes our correspondence, I must 
not, cannot, alter Bonnie Lesley. You are 
right, the word, " AlexatiWer" makes the 
line a little uncouth, but 1 think the thought 
is pretty. Of Alexander, beyond all other 
heroes, it may be said in the sublime lan- 
guage of scripture, that " he went forth con- 
quering and to conquer." 

'• For nature made her what she is, • 
And never made anither." (Such a person as 
she is.) 

This is in my opinion more poetical than 
" Ne'er made sic anither." However, it is 
immaterial ; make it either way * " Cale- 
donie," I agree with you, is not so good a 
word as could be wished, though it is sanc- 
tioned in three or four instances by Allan 
Ramsay : but I cannot help it. In short, that 
species of stanza is the most difficult that I 
have ever tried. 

The Lea-rig is as follows. {Here the poet 
gives the tiro first stanzas, as bffore, p. 170, 
toith the following in addition.) 



* Mr, Thompson. has decided on AVer made 
sic anither. E. 



The hunter lo'es the morning sun, 

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo 
At noon the fisher seeks the glen. 

Along the burn to steer, my jo : 
Gie me the hour o' gloamin gray, 

It maks my heart sae cheery, O, 
To meet thee on the lea-rig. 

My ain kind dearie, O. 



I am interrupted. 



Yours, &c. 



No. IX. 
MR, BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Inclosing Auld Rob Morris, and Duncan 
Gray. See Poems, p. 107. 

Ath December, 1792. 

The foregoing {Auld Rob Morris and 
Duncan Gray,) 1 submit, my dear Sir, to 
your better judgment. Acquit them, or con- 
demn them, as seemeth good in your sight. 
Duncan Gray is that kind of light-horse gal- 
lop of an air, which precludes sentiment. — 
The ludicrous is its ruling feature. 



No. X. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

With Poortith Cauld and Galla Water. See 
Poems, pp. 107, 108. 

January, 1793. 

Many returns of the season to you, my 
dear Sir. How comes on your publication .'' 
will these two foregoing be of any service to 
you .' I should like to know what songs you 
print to each tune besides the verses to which 
it is set. In short, I would wish to give you 
my opinion on all the poetry you publish. — 
You know it is in my trade, and a man in the 
way of his trade, may suggest useful hints, 
that escape men of much superior parts and 
endowments in other things. 

If you meet with my dear and much-va- 
lued C. greet him in my name, with the com- 
pliments of the season. 

Yours, &c. 



174 



LETTERS. 



No. XI. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 
Edinburgh, January 20, 1793. 

You make me happy, my dear Sir, and 
thousands will be happy to seethe charming 
songs you have sent me. Many merry re- 
turi)s of the season toyou, and may you long 
continue among the sons and daughters of 
Caledonia, to delight them and to honour 
yourself. 

Tlie four last songs with which you fa- 
\'oured me, viz. Auld Rob Morris, Dvncan 
Gray, Galla Water, and Cautd Kail, arc ad- 
mirable. Duncan is indeed a lad of grace, 
and his humour will endear him to every 
body. 

The distracted lover in Juld Rob, and the 
happy shepherdess in Galla IVater, exhibit 
an excellent contrast ; they speak from ge- 
nuine feeling, and powerfully touch the 
heart. 

The number of songs which I had origi- 
nally in view was limited ; but I now resolve 
to include every Scotch air and song worth 
singing, leaving none behind but mere glean- 
ings, to which the publishers of omwc^a^Aer- 
um are welcome. I would rather be the edi- 
tor of a collection from which nothing could 
be taken away, than of one to which nothing 
could be added. We intend presenting the 
subscribers with two beautiful stroke en- 
gravings; the one characteristic of tbe 
plaintive, and the other of the lively songs ; 
and I have Dr. Beattie's promise of an essay 
upon the subject of our national music, if 
his health will permit him to write it. As a 
number of our songs have doubtless been 
called forth by particular events, or by the 
charms of peerless damsels, there must be 
many curious anecdotes relating to them. 

The late Mr. Tytler of Woodhouselee, I 
believe knew more of this than any body, for 
he joined to the pursuits of an antiquary a 
taste for poetry, besides being a man of the 
world, and possessing an enthusiasm for mu- 
sic beyond most of his contemporaries. He 
was quite pleased with this plan of mine, for 
I may say it has been solely managed by me, 
and we nad several long conversations about 
it when it was in embryo. If I could simply 
mention the name of the heroine of each 
song, and the incident which occasioned the 
verses, it would be gratifying Pray will 
you send me any information of this sort, as 
well with regard to your own songs, as the 
old ones i 

To all the favourite songs of the plaintive 
or pastoral kind, will be joined the delicate 
accompaniments, &c, of Pleyel. To those 



of the comic and humorous class, I think aC" 
companiments scarcely necessary ; they are 
chiefly fitted for the conviviality of the fes- 
tive board, and a tuneful voice, with a proper 
delivery of the words, renders them perfect. 
Nevertheless, to these I propose adding bass 
accompaniments, because then they are fit- 
ted either for singing, or for instrumental per- 
formance, when there happens to be no 
singer. I mean to employ our right trusty 
friend Mr. Clarke, to set the bass to these, 
which he assures me he will do con amore, 
and with much greater attention than he 
ever bestowed on any thing of the kind. But 
for this last class of airs I will not attempt to 
find more than one set of verses. 

That eccentric bard, Peter Pindar, has 
started I know not how many difficulties, 
about writing for the airs I sent to him, be- 
cause of the peculiarity of their measure, and 
the trammels they impose on his flying Pe- 
gasus. I subjoin for your perusal the only 
one I have yet got from him, being for the 
fin^ air '' Lord Gregory." The Scots verses 
printed with that air, are taken from the mid- 
dle of an old ballad, called The Lass of Loch- 
royan, which I do not admire. I have set 
down the air therefore as a creditor of yours, 
Many of the Jacobite songs are replete with 
wit and humour ; might not the best of these 
be included in our volume of comic songs.' 



POSTSCRIPT. 

FROM THE HON. A. ERSKINE. 

Mr. Thomson has been so obliging as 
to give ine a perusal of your songs. High- 
land Mary is most enchantingly pathetic, 
and Duncan Gray posstjases native genuine 
I humour ; " spak o' lowpin o'er a linn," is a 
line of itself that should make you immortal. 
I sometimes hear of you from our mutual 
friend C. who is a most excellent fellow, and 
possesses, above all men I know, the charm 
of a most obliging disposition. You kindly 
promised me, about a year ago, a collection 
of your unpublished productions, religious 
and amorous : I know from experience how 
irksome it is to copy. If you will get any 
trusty person in Dumfries to write thera 
over fair, I will give Peter Hill whatever mo- 
ney he asks for his trouble, and I certainly 
shall not betray your confidence. — I am your 
hearty admirer, 

ANDREW ERSKINE. 



No. XIL 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

2Qth January, 1793. 
I approve greatly, my dear Sir, of your 
plans ; Dr. Beattie's essay will of itself be a 



LETTERS. 



175 



treasure. On my part, I mean to draw up 
an appendix to the Doctor's essay, contain- 
ing my stock of anecdotes, &c. of our Scots 
songs. All the late Mr. Tytler's anecdotes I 
have by me, taken down in the course of my 
acquaintance with him from his own mouth. 
I am such an enthusiast, that in the course 
of my several peregrinations through Scot- 
land, I made a pilgrimage to the individual 
spot from which every song took its rise ; 
Lochaber, and the Braes of Ballenden, ex- 
cepted. So far as the locality, either from 
the title of the air, or the tenor of the song, 
could be ascertained, I have paid my devo- 
tions at the particular shrine of every Scots 
muse. 

I do not doubt but you might make a very 
valuable collection of Jacobite songs; but 
would it give no offence .'' In the meantime, 
do not you think that some of them, particu- 
larly The sow^s tail to Geordie, as an air, 
with other words, might be well worth a 
place in your collection of lively songs ? 

If it were possible to procure songs of me- 
rit, it would be proper to have one set of 
Scots words to every air, and that the set of 
words to which the notes ought to be set. 
There is a naivete, a pastoral simplicity in a 
slight intermixture of Scots words and phra- 
seology, which is more in unison, (at least 
to my taste, and I will add to every genuine 
Caledonian taste) with the simple pathos, or 
rustic sprightliness of our native music, than 
any English verses whatever. 

The very name of Peter Pindar is an ac- 
quisition to your work. His Gregory is 
beautiful. I have tried to give you a set of 
stanzas in Scots, on the same subject, which 
are at your service. Not that I intend to 
enter the lists with Peter ; that would be pre- 
sumption indeed. My song, though much 
inferior in poetic merit, has, I think, more of 
the ballad simplicity in it.* 

* ForBurns's words, see Poems, p. 108. — The 
song of Dr. Walcott, on the same subject, is as 
follows : 

Ah ! ope, Lord Gregory, thy door ! 

A midnight wanderer sighs : 
Hard rush the rains, the tempests roar, 

And lightnings cleave the skies. 

Who comes with wo at this drear night — 

A pilgrim of the gloom ? 
If she whose love did once delight, 

My cot shall yield her room. 

Alas ! thou heard' st a pilgrim mourn> 
That once was prized by thee ; 

Think of the ring by yonder burn 
Thou gav'st to love and me. 



My most respectful compliments to the 
honourable gentleman who favoured me with 
a postscript in your last. He shall hear from 
me, and receive his MSS. soon. 



No. XIII. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

20th March, 1793. 

My Dear Sib, 

The song prefixed is one of my juvenile 
works.* I leave it in your hands. I do not 
think it very remarkable, either for its me- 
rits or demerits. It is impossible (at least I 
feel it so in my stinted powers) to be always 
original, entertaining, and witty. 

What is become of the list, &c. of your 
songs ? I shall be out of all temper with you 
by and by. I have always looked upon my- 
self as the prince of indolent correspondents, 
and valued myself accordingly ; and I will 
not, cannot bear rivalship from you, nor any 
body else. 



No. XIV. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

With the first copy of Wandering Willie. — 
See Poems, p. 108. 

March, 1793. 

I leave it to you, my dear Sir, to deter- 
mine whether the above, or the old Thro' 
the tang Muir, be the best. 



But shouldst thou not poor Marian know, J 

I'll turn my feet and part : 
And think the storms that round me blow, 

Far kinder than thy heart. 

It is but doing justice to Dr. Walcott to men- 
tion, that his song is the original. Mr. Burns 
aaw it, liked it, and immediately wrote the other 
on the same subject, which is derived from an 
old Scottish ballad of uncertain origin. E. j 

* Mary Morison, Poems, p. 150. 



116 



LETTERS. 



No. XV. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

OPEN THE DOOR TO ME OH ! 

With Alterations. 

Oh ! open the door, some pity to show, 
Oh ! open the door to me, Oh !* 

See Poems, p. 108. 

I do not know whether this song be really 
mended. 



No. XVI. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

JESSIE. 

Tune — " Bonnie Dundee." 

True hearted was he, the sad Swain o' the 

Yarrow, 
And fair are the maids on the banks o' the 

Ayr; 

See Poems, p. 108. 



No. xvn. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 2d April, 1793. 

I will not recognize the title you give 
yourself, " the prince o{ indolent correspon- 
dents ;" but if the adjective were taken away, 
I think the title would then fit you exactly. 
It gives me pleasure to find you can furnish 
anecdotes with respect to most of the songs ; 
these will be a literary curiosity. 

I now send you my list of the songs, which 
I believe will be found nearly complete. I 
have put do^* n the first lines of all the Eng- 
lish songs which I propose giving in addition 
to the Scotch verses. If any others occur to 
you, better adapted to the character of the 
airs, pray mention them, when you favour 
me with your strictuies upon every thing 
else relating to the work. 

Pleyel has lately sent me a number of the 
songs, with his symphonies and accompani- 
ments added to them. 1 wish you were here, 
that I might serve up some of them to you 
with your own verses, by way of dessert 

* This seeond line was originally, 
If love it may na be, O ! 



after dinner. There is so much delightful 
fancy in the symphonies, and such a delicate 
simplicity in the accompaniments — they are 
indeed beyond all praise. 

I am very much pleased with the several 
last productions of ycur muse : your Lord 
Gregory, in my estimation, is more interest- 
ing than Peter's, beautiful as his is ! Your 
Here awa Willie must undergo some altera- 
tions to suit the air Mr. Erskine and I have 
been conning it over ; he will suggest what 
is necessary to make them a fit match.* 

The gentleman I have mentioned, whose 
fine taste you are no stranger to, is so well 
pleased both with the musical and poetical 
part of our work, that he has volunteered his 
assistance, and has already written four songs 
for it, which, by his own desire, I send for 
your perusal. 



No. XVIIl. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

WHEN WILD war's DEADLY BLAST WAS 
BLAWN. 

Air—'' The Mill Mill O." 

When wild war's deadly blast was blawn, 
And gentle peace returning, 

See Poems, p. 157. 
MEG O' THE MILL. 

Air — " O bonnie lass will you lie in a bar- 
rack." 

O ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten, 
An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten .'' 

See Poems, p. 108. 

* See the altered copy of Wandering Willie, 
p. 108, of the Poems. Several of th.e alleiations 
seem to be of little importance in themselves, and 
were adopted, it may be presumed, for the sake 
of suiting the words better to the music. The 
Homeric epithet for the sea, dark-heaving, sug- 
gested by Mr. Erskine, is in itself more beautiful, 
as well perhaps as more sublime, than wildroar- 
ing, which he has retained ; but as it is only aji- 
plicable to a placid stale of the sea, or at most to 
the swell left on its surface after the storm is over, 
it gives a picture of that element not so well 
adapted to the ideas of eternal separation, which 
the fair mourner is supposed to imprecate From 
the original song of Here axoa Willie, Burns has 
borrowed nothing but the second line -and part 
of the first The superior excellence of this beau- 
tiful poem will, it is hoped, justify the different 
editions of it which we have given. E. 



LETTERS. 



177 



No, XIX. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

nth April, 1793. 

Tbank you, my dear Sir, for your pack- 
et. You cannot imagine how much this bu- 
siness of composing for your pubhcation has 
added to my enjoyments. What with my 
early attachment to ballads, your books, &c. 
ballad-making is now as completely my hob- 
by-horse, as ever fortification was uncle To 
by's ; so I'll e'en canter it away till I come lo 
the limit of ray race, (God grant that I may 
take the right side of the winning post !) and 
then cheerfully looking back on the honest 
folks with whom I have been happy, I shall 
say or sing, '* Sae merry as We a' hae been !" 
and raising my last looks to the whole human 
race, the last words of the voice of Coila^ 
shall be, " Good night and joy be wi' you 
a'!" So much for my past words: now for 
a few present remarks, as they have occurred 
at random on looking over your list. 

The first lines of The last, time I came o'er 
the Moor, and several other lines in it, are 
beautiful ; but in my opinion — pardon me. re- 
vered shade of Ramsay ! the song is unwor- 
thy of the divine air I shall try to make or 
mend. Forever, Fortune, wilt thou prove, 
is a charming song ! but Logan hum and Lo- 
gan braes, are sweetly susceptible of rural 
imagery : I'll try that likewise, and if I suc- 
ceed, the other song may class among the 
English ones. I remember the two last lines 
of a verse, in some of the old songs of Logan 
Water (for I know a good many different 
ones) which I think pretty. 

" Now my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes." 

My Patie is a lover gay, is unequal. '' His 
mind is never muddy," is a muddy expres- 
sion indeed. 

" Then I'll resign and marry Pate, 
And syne my cockernony." — 

This is surely far unworthy of Ramsay, or 
your book. My song, Rigs of Barley, to the 
same tune, does not altogether please me , 
but if I can mend it, and thrash a few loost 
sentiments out of it, I will submit it to your 
cons«*<eration. The Lass o' Patie' s Mill is 
one of Ramsay's best songs ; but there is one 
loose sentiment in it, which my much va- 
lued friend Mr. Erskine will take into his 

* Burns here calls himself the Voice ofCoila, 
in imitation of Ossian, who denominates hhnselt 
the Voice ofCona. Sae merry as we a' hae been ; 
and Good night and joy be ivV you a', are the 
names of two Scottish tunes. 



critical consideration. — In Sir J. Sinclair's 
Statistical volumes, are two claims, one, I 
think, from Aberdeenshire, and the other 
from Ayrshire, for the honour of this song. 
The following anecdote, which 1 had from 
the present Sir William Cunningham, of Ro- 
bertland, who had it of the late John, Earl of 
Loudon, I can, on such authorities, believe. 

Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudon cas-r 
tie with the then Earl, father to Earl John ; 
and one forenoon, riding or walking out to- 
gether, his Lordship and Allan passed a sweet 
romantic spot on Irvine water, still called 
'' Patie's Mill," where a bonnie lass was 
" tedding hay, bareheaded on the green." 
My Lord observed to Allan, that it would be 
a fine theme for a song. Ramsay took the 
hint, and lingering behind^ he composed the 
first sketch of it, which he produced at 
dinner. 

One day I heard Mary say, is a fine song ; 
but for consistency's sake alter the name, 
" Adonis." Were there ever such banns 
published, as a purpose of marriage between 
Jidonis and Mary ? I agree with you that 
my song. There's nought hut care on every 
hand, is much superior to Poortith cauld. — 
The original song. The Mill Mill O, though 
excellent, is, on account of delicacy, inad- 
missible ; still I like the title, and think a 
S<;ottish song would suit the notes best ; 
and let your chosen song, which is very pret- 
ty, follow, as an English set. The Banks of 
the Dee, is, you know, literally Langolee, to 
slow time. The song is well enough, but has 
some false imagery m it : for instance, 

" And sweetly the nightingale sung from the ^ree." 

In the first place, the nightingale sings in 
a low bush, but never from a tree; and in the 
second place, there never was a nightingale 
seen, or heard, on the banks of the Dee, or 
on the banks of any other river in Sc )tland. 
Exotic rural imagery is always cpmparatively 
fiat. If I could hit op another staflza, equal 
to The small birds rejoice, &c. I do myself 
honestly avow, th t I think it a superior 
song.* John Anderson my jo — the song to 
this tune in Johnson's Museum, is my com- 
position, and I think it not my worst : if it 
suit you, take it, and welcome. Your collec- 
tion of sentimental and pathetic songs, is, in 
my opinion, very complete ; but not so your 
comic ones. Where are Tullochgorum, 
Lumps o' puddin, Tibbie Fotcler, and seve- 
ral others, which, in my humble judgment, 
are well worthy of preservation ? There is 
also one sentimental song of mine in the Mu- 
seum, which never was known out of the im- 



* It will be found, in the course of this corres- 
pondence, that the Bard produced a second stan- 
za of The Chevalier's Lament (to which he here 
alludes) worthy of the first. E. 



178 



LETTERS, 



mediate neighbourhood, until 1 got it taken 
down from a country girl'^ singing. It is 
called Craigieburn Wood; and in the opi- 
nion of Mr, Clarke, is one of the sweetest 
Scottish songs. He is quite an enthusiast 
about it : and I would take his taste in Scot- 
tish music against the taste of most connois- 
seurs. 

You are quite right in inserting the last 
five in your list, thoug^h they are certainly 
Irish. Shepherds, I have lost my love ! is to 
me a heavenly air — what would you think of 
a set of Scottish verses to it ? I have made 
one to it a good while ago, which I think 
* * * * but in its original state 
is not quite a lady's song. I enclose an al- 
tered, not amended copy, for you, if j'ou 
choose to set the tune to it, and let the Irish 
verses follow.* 

Mr. Erskine's songs are all pretty, but his 
Lone Vale is divine. 

Yours, &c. 

Let jne know just how you like these ran- 
dom hints. 



No. XX. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR, BURNS. 

Edinburgh, April, 1793. 

I rejoice to find, my dear Sir, that bal- 
lad-making continues to be your hobby-horse. 
Great pity 'twould be were it otherwise. I 
hope you will amble it away for many a year, 
and " witch the world with your horseman- 
ship." 

I know there are a good many lively songs 
of merit that 1 have not put down in the list 
sent you ; but I have them all in my eye — 
My Patie is a lover gay, though a little une- 
qual, is a natural and very pleasing song, 
and I humbly think we ought not to displace 
or alter it, except the last stanza. t 

* Mr. Thomson, it appears, did not approve of 
this song, even in its altered state. It does not 
appear in the correspondence ; but it is probably 
one to be found in his MSS. beginning, 

♦♦ Yestreen I got a pint of wine, 
A place where body saw na ; 

Yestreen lay on this breast of mine, 
The gqwden locks of Anna." 

It is highly characteristic of our Bard, but the 
strain of sentiment does not correspond \vith the 
air to which he proposes it should be allied. E. 

f The original letter from Mr. Thompson con- 
tains many observations on the Scottish songs, 
and on the manner of adapting the words to the 
music, which, at his desire, are suppressed. The 
subsequent letter of Mr. Burns refers to several 
of these observations. E. 



No. XXf. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

April, 1793. 

1 have yours, my dear Sir, this moment. 
I shall answer it and your former letter, in 
my desultory way of saying whatever comes 
uppermost. 

The business of many of our tunes want- 
ing, at the beginning, what fiddlers call a 
starting note, is often a rub to us poor 
rhymers. 

" There's braw, braw ladson Yarrow braes. 
That wander through llie blooming heather. 

you may alter to 

" Braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes. 
Ye wander," i&c. 

My song, Here awa, there awa, as amended 
by Mr. Erskine, 1 entirely approve of, and 
return you.* 

Give me leave to criticise your taste in 
the only thing in which it is in my opinion 
reprehensible. You know I ought to know 
something of my own trade. Of pathos, 
sentiment, and point, you are a complete 
judge : but there is a quality more necessary 
than either, in a song, and which is the very 
essence of a ballad, I mean simplicity : now, 
if I mistake not, this last feature you are a 
little apt to sacrifice to the foregomg. 

Ramsay, as every other poet, has not been 
always equally happy in his pieces ; still I 
cannot approve of taking such liberties with 
an author as Mr. W. proposes doing with 
The last time I came o'er the moor. Let a 
poet, if he chooses, take up the idea of ano- 
ther, and work it into a piece of his own ; 
but to mangle the works of the poor bard, 
whose tuneful tongue is now mute for ever, 
in the dark and narrow house ; by Heaven, 
'twould be sacrilege ! I grant tliat Mr. W.'s 
version is an improvement ; but I know Mr. 
W. well, and esteem him much : let him 
mend the song, as the Highlander mended 
his gun — he gave it a new stock, a new lock, 
and a new barrel. 

I do' not by this object to leaving atit im - 
proper stanzas, where that can be done with- 
out spoihng the whole. One stanza in The 
Lass of Palie's Mill, must be left out : the 
song will be nothing worse for it. I am not 
sure if we can take the same liberty with Corn 

* The reader has already seen thai Burns did 
not finally adopt all of Mr. Erskine's altera- 
tions. K. 



LETTERS. 



179 



rigs are bonnie. Perhaps it might want the 
last stanza, and be the better for it. Could 
kail in Aberdeen you must leave with me vet 
a while. I have vowed to have a song to that 
air, on the lady whom I attempted to cele 
brate in the verses Poortith cauld and restless 
love. At any rate my other song, Green 
grow the TashPs.,y/\\\ never suit. That song- 
is current in Scotland under the old title, 
and to the merry old tune of that name, which 
of course would mar the progress of your 
song to celebrity. Your book will be the 
standard of Scots songs for the future : let 
this idea ever keep your judgment on the 
alarm. 

I send a song, on a celebrated toast in this 
country, to suit Bonnie Dundee. I send you 
also a ballad to the Mill Mill 0.* 

The last time I came o'er the moor, I would 
fain attempt to make a Scots song for, and 
let Ramsay's be the English set. You shall 
hear from me soon. When you go to i^on- 
don on this business, can you come by Dum- 
fries .'' I have still several MSS. Scots airs 
by me which I have picked up, mostly from 
the singing of country lasses. They please 
me vastly ; but your learned /w^5 would per- 
haps be displeased with the very feature for 
which I like them. £ call them simple j you 
would pronounce them silly. Do you know 
a fine air called Jackie Hume's Lament ? I 
have a song of considerable merit to that air. 
I'll enclose you both the song and tune, as 
I had them ready to send to Johnson's Mu- 
seum. t I send you likewise, to me, a very 
beautiful little air, which I had taken down 
from viva voce.X Adieu ! 



No. XXII. 

MR, BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

A^ril, 1793. 
My Dear Sir, 

I had scarcely put my last letter into the 
post-office, when I took up the subject of 



*■ The song to the tune of Bonnie Dwnrfee, is 
that given in the Poems, p. 108. The ballad to 
the Mill Mill O, is that beginning, 

" When wild war's deadly blast w as blawn." 

f The song here mentioned is that given in the 
Poems, p. 108. O ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has 
gotten? This song is surely Mr. Burns's own 
writing, though he does not generally praise bis 
own songs so much. 

J\''ote by Mr. Thomson. 

I The air here mentioned is that for which he 
wrote the ballad of Bonnie Jean, given in p. 109 
of the Poems. 

IB 



The last time I came o'er the moor, and, ere I 
slept, drew the outlines of the foregoing.* 
How far I have succeeded, I leave on this, 
as on every other occasion, to you to decide. 
I own my vanity is flattered, when you give 
my songs a place in your elegant and superb 
work ; but to be of service to the work is 
my first wish. As I have often told you, I 
do not in a single instance wish you, out of 
C!>tnpliment to me, to insert any thing of 
mine. One hint let me givej-ou — whatever 
Mr. Pleyel does, let him not alter one iota 
of the original Scottish airs ; I mean in the 
song department ; but let our national music 
preserve its native features. They are, I 
own, frequently wild and irreducible to the 
more modern rules ; but on that very eccen- 
tricity, perhaps, depends a great part of 
their effect. 



No. XXHI. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 26th ^pril, 1793. 

I heartily thank you, my dear Sir, for your 
last two letters, and the songs which accom- 
panied them. I am always both instructed 
and entertained by observations ; and the 
frankness with which you speak out your 
mind, is to me highly agreeable. It. is very 
possible I may not have the true idea of sim- 
plicity in composition. I confess there are 
se veral songs, of Allan Rain say 's for example, 
that I think silly enough, which another per- 
son, more conversant than I have been with 
country people, would perhaps call simple 
and natural. But the lowest scenes of simple 
nature will not please generally, if copied 
precisely as they are. The poet, like the 
painter, must select what will form an agree- 
able as well as a natural picture. On this 
subject it were easy to enlarge ; but at pre- 
sent suffice it to say, that I consider simpli- 
city, rightly understood, as a most essential 
quality in composition, and the ground-work 
of beauty in all the arts. I will gladly appro- 
priate your most interesting new ballad, 
When tvild. war's deadly blast, &.C. to the 
Mill Mill O, as well as li"ie tvv^o other songs 
to their respective airs ; but the third and 
fourth lines of the first verse must undergo 
some little alteration in order to suit tiio mu- 
sic. Pleyel does not alter a single note of 
the sono-s. T'hat would be absurd indeed ! 
With the airs which he introduces into the 
sonatas, I allo'.v !nm to take sucIj liberties as 
he pleases; but that has nothing to do with 
the songs. 



* See Poems, page \49.~Yovvg Pfscgv- 



180 



LETTLHS. 



P. S. I wish 3'ou would do as you propose 
with your Rigs of Barley. If the loose sen- 
timents are threshed out of it, I will find an 
air for it; but as to this there is no hurry. 



No. XXIV. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

June, 1793. 

Wlien I tell you, my dear Sir, that a 
friend of mine, in whom I am much interest- 
ed, has fallen a sacrifice to these accursed 
times, you will easily allow that it might un- 
liinge me for doing any good among ballads. 
My own loss, as to pecuniary matters, is tri- 
fling; but the total ruin of a much-loved 
friend, is a loss indeed. Pardon my seeming 
inattention to your last commands. 

I cannot alter the disputed lines in the 
Mill Mill 0." What you think a defect I es- 
teem as a positive beauty ; so you see how 
doctors differ. I shall now with as much 
alacrity as 1 can muster, go on with your 
commands. 

You know Frazer, the hautboy-player, in 
Edinburgh — he is here, instructing a band 
of music for a fencible corps quartered in 
this countr}'. Among many of his airs that 
please me, there is one, well known as a reel, 
by the name of The Quaker's Wife; and 
which I remember a grand aunt of mine used 
to sing by the name of Liggeram Cosh, my 
lonnie wee lass. Mr. Frazer plajrs it slow, 
and with an expression that quite charms 
me. I became such an enthusiast about it, 
that I made a song for it, which I here sub- 
join ; and enclose Frazer's set of the tune. 
If they hit your fancy, they are at your ser- 
vice; if not, return me the tune, and I will 
put it in Johnson's Museum. I think the 
song is not in my worst manner. 



Blythe hae I been on yon hill, 
As the lambs before me ; 

See Poems, p. 132, 
I should wish to hear how this pleases you. 



* The lines were the third and fourth. See 
Poems, p. 151. 

»* Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, 
And mony a widow mourning." 

As our poet had maintained a long silence, and 
the first number of Mr. Thomson's Musical 
Work was in the press, this gentleman ventured 
by Mr. Erskine's advice, to substitute for them in 
that publication, 

" And eyes again with pleasure beam'd 
That had been blear'd with mourning." 

Though better suited to the music, these lines are 
inferior to the original. This is the only altera- 
tion adopted by Mr. Thomson, which Burns did 
not approve, or at least assent to. 



No. XXV. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

25th June, 1793. 

Have you ever, my dear Sir , felt your 
bosom ready to burst with indignation on 
reading of those mighty villains who divide 
kingdom against kingdom, desolate provinces, 
and lay nations waste, out of the wantonness 
of ambition, or often from still more ignoble 
passions.'' In a mood of this kind to-day, I 
recollected the air of Logan Water ; and it 
occurred to me that its querulous melody 
probably had its origin from the plaintive in- 
dignation of some swelling, suffering heart, 
fired at the tyrannic strides of some public 
destroyer ; and o\'erwhelmed with private 
distress, the consequence of a country's ruin. 
If I have done any thing at all like justice to 
my feelings, the following song, composed in 
three quarters of an hour's meditation in my 
elbow chair, ought to have some merit. 

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide, 
That day I was my Willie's bride ; 

See Poems, p. 101). 

Do you know the following beautiful little 
fragment in Witherspoon's Collection of Scots 
Songs ? 

" O gin my love were yon red rose, 
That grows upon the castle wa' ;" 

See Poems, p. 133. 

This thought is inexpressibly beautiful; 
and quite, so far as I know, original. It is 
too short for a song, else I would forswear 
you altogether, unless you gave it a place. 
I have often tried to eke a stanza to it, but 
in vain. After balancing myself for a mus- . 
ing five minutes, on the hind legs of my el- 
bow chair, I produced the following. 

The verses are far inferior to the fore- 
going, I frankly confess ; but if worthy of 
insertion at all, they might be first in place ; 
as every poet, who knows any thing of his 
trade, will husband his best thoughts for a 
concluding stroke. 

O, were my love yon lilach fair, 
Wi' purple blossoms to the spring ; 

Sec Poems, p. 133. 



^ 



LETTERS. 



181 



No. XXVI. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Monday, \st July, 1793. 

I am extremely sorry, my good Sir, that 
any thing should happen to unhinge you. 
The times are terribly out of tune ; and when 
harmony will be restored, Heaven knows. 

The first book of songs, just published, 
will be despatched to you along with this. 
Let me be favoured with your opinion of it 
frankly and freely. 

I shall certainly give a place to the song 
you have written for the Quaker's Wife ; it 
is quite enchanting. Pray will you return 
the list of songs with such airs added to it ns 
you think ought to be included. The busi 
ness now rests entirely on rays«'lf, the gen- 
tlemen who originally agreed to join the spe- 
culation having requested to be off. No mat- 
ter, a loser I cnnnot be. The superior ex- 
cellence of the work will create a general 
de^J;^nd ^or it as soon as it is properly known. 
And were the sale even slower than it pro- 
mises to be, I should be somewhat compen- 
sated for my labour, by the pleasure I shall 
receive from the music. I cannot express 
how much I am obliged to you for the exqui- 
site new songs you are sending me ; but 
thanks, my friend, are a poor return for what 
you have done: as I shall be benefited by 
the publication, you must suffer me to en- 
close a small mark of my gratitude,* and to 
repeat it afterwards when 1 find it conve- 
nient. Do not return it, for, by Heaven, if 
you do, our correspondence is at an end : 
and though this would be no loss to you, it 
would mar the publication, which under your 
auspices cannot fail to be respectable and in- 
teresting. 



Wednesday Mornivg. 

I thank you for your delicate additional 
verses to the old fragment, and for your ex- 
cellent song to Logan Water ; Thomson's 
truly elegant one will follow, for the English 
singer. Your apostrophe to statesmen is 
admirable ; but I am not sure if it is quite 
suitable to the supposed gentle character of 
the fair mourner who speaks it. 



[Rv 31 



No. xxvn. 

MRv 3URNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

July 2d, 1793. 

I have just finished, my dear Sir, the 
following ballad, and, as I do think it in my 

* r'ive Pounds. 



best style, I send it you. Mr. Clarke, who 
wrote down the air from Mrs. Burns's loood- 
note loild, is very fond of it, and has given it 
a celebrity, by teaching it to some young la- 
dies of the first fashion Jiere. If you do not 
like the air enough to give it a place in your 
collection, please return it. The song you 
may keep, as I remember it. 

There was a lass, and she was fair, 
At kirk and market to be seen; 

Sec Poems J). 109. 

I have some thoughts of insertiao- in your 
index, or in my notes, the names of the fair 
ones, the themes of my songs. I do not mean 
the name at full ; but dashes or asterisms, so 
as ingenuity may find them out. 

The heroine of the foregoing is Miss M. 
daughter to Mr. M. of D. one of your sub- 
scribers. I have not painted her in the rank 
which she holds in life, but in the dress and 
character of a cottao-er. 



No. xxviir. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

JMZy,1793. 

I assure you, my dear Sir, that you truly 
hurt me with your pecmiiary parcel. It de- 
grades me in my own eyes. Ilowever, to re- 
turn it would savour of affectation : but as 
to any more trafiic of that debtor and credi- 
tor kind, I swear by that Honour which 
crowns the upright statue of Robert Burns's 
Integrity— on tlie least motion of it, I will 
indignantly spurn the by past transaction, 
and from that moment commence entire 
stranger to you ! Burns's character for ge- 
nerosity of sentiment and independence of 
mind, will, I trust, long out-live any of his 
wants which the cold unfeeling ore can sup- 
ply : at least I will take care that such a cha- 
racter he shall deserve. 

Thank you for my copy of your publica- 
tion. Never did my eyes behold, in any mu- 
sical work, such elegance and correctness. 
Your preface, loo, is admirably written ; on- 
ly your partiality to me has made you say too 
much; however, it will bind me down to 
double every effort in the future progress of 
the work. The following are a few remarks 
on the songs in the list you sent me. I ne- 
ver copy what I write to you, so I may be 
often tautological, or perhaps contradictory. 

The Floiceis of the Forest is charming as 
a poem, and should be, and must be, set to 
the notes; but, though out of your rule, the 
three stanzas beginning,. 



V 



182 



LETTERS. 



"I haeseen the smiling o' fortune beguiling," 

are worthy of a place, were it but to immor- 
talize the author of them, who is an old lady 
of my acquaintance, and at this moment liv- 
ing in Edinburgh. She is a Mrs. Cockburn ; 
1 forget of what place ; but from Roxburgh- 
shire. What a charming apostrophe is 

" O fickle fortune, why this cruel sporting, 
Why, why torment us — poor sons of a day P^ 

The old ballad, / wish I were where Helen 
lies, is silly to contemptibility.* My altera- 
tion of it in Johnson's is not much better — 
Mr. Pinkerton, in his what he calls ancient 
ballads (many of them notorious, though 
beautiful enough, forgeries) has the best set. 
It is full of his own interpolations, but no 
matter. 

In my next I will suggest to j-our consi- 
deration a few songs which may have es- 
caped your hurried notice. In the mean 
time allow me to congratulate you now, as a 
brother of the quill. You have committed 
your character and fame: which will now be 
tried for ages to come, by the illustrious jury 
of the Sons and Daughters of Taste — all 
whom poesy can please, or music charm. 



Being a bard of nature, I have some pre- 
tensions to second sight ; and I am warrant- 
ed by the spirit to foretell and affirm, that 
your great-grand-child will hold up your vo- 
lumes and say, with himest pride, " This so 
much admired selection was the work of my 
ancestor." 



No. XXIX. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh^ lat Axigust^ 1793. 

Dear Sir, 

I had the pleasure of receiving your last 
two letters, and am happy to find that you 
are quite pleased with the appearance of the 
first book. When you come to hear the 
songs sung and accompanied, you will be 
charmed with them. 

r/ie bonnie brucket Lassie, certainly de- 
serves better verses, and I hope you will 
match her. Cauld Kail in Aberdeen — Let 



* There is a copy of this ballad given in the 
account of the Parish of Kilpatrirk-Fleeming 
(which contains the tomb of fair Helen Irvine,) 
in the Statistics of Sir John Sinclair, vol. xiii. p. 
275, to which this character is certainlv not ap- 
plicable. ' * 



me in this ae night, and several of the live- 
lier airs, wait the muse's leisure ; these are 
peculiarly worthy of her choice gifts ; be- 
sides, you'll notice, that in airs of this sort, 
the singer can always do greater justice to 
the poet, than in the slower airs of The Bush 
aboon Traquair, Lord Gregory, and the like ; 
for in the manner the latter are frequently 
sung, you must be contented with the sound, 
without the sense Indeed both the airs and 
v/ords are disguised by the very slow, lan- 
guid, psalm-singing style in which they are 
too often performed ; they lose animation and 
expression altogether ; and instead of speak- 
ing to the mind, or touching the heart, they 
cloy upon the ear, and set us a yawning '. 

Your ballad, There was a lass and she was 
fair, is simple and beautiful, and shall un- 
doubtedly grace my collection. 



No. XXX. 



MR BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 



August, 1793. 



My Dear Thomson, 



I hold the pen for our friend Clarke, 
who at present is studying the music of the 
spheres at my elbow. The Georgium Hidus 
he thinks is rather out of tune; so until he 
rectify that matter, he cannot stoop to ter- 
restrial affairs. 

He sends you six of the Rondeau subjects, 
and if more are wanted, he says you shall 
have them. 



Confound )'our long stairs ! 

S. CLARKE. 



No. XXXI. 
MR BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
August, 1793. 

Your objection, my dear Sir, to the pas- 
sages in my song of Logan Water, is right in 
one instance, but it is difficult to mend it ; if 
1 can, I will. The other passage you object 
to, does not appear in the same light to me. 

I have tried my hand on Robin Adair, and 
you will probably think with little success ; 
but it is such a cursed, cramp, out-of-the-way 
measure, that I despair of doing any thing 
better to it. 



LETTERS. 



183 



PHILLIS THE FAIR. 

While larks with little winjr, 
Fann'd the pure air, 

See Poems, p. 109. 

So much for namby-pamby. I may, after 
all, try my hand on it in Scots verse. There 
I always find myself most at home. 

I have just put the last hand to the song I 
meant for Cavld Kail in Jiberdeen. If it 
suits you to insert it, I shall be pleased, as 
the heroine is a favourite of mine ; if not, I 
shall also be pleased ; because I wish, and 
will be glad, to see you act decidedly on 
the business.* 'Tis a tribute as a man of 
taste, and as an editor, which you owe your- 
self. 



No. XXXII. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 



August, 1793. 



My Good Sir, 



I consider it one of the most agreeable 
circumstances attending this publication of 
mine, that it has procured me so many of 
your much valued epistles. Pray make my 
acknowledgments to St. Stephen for the 
tunes; tell him I admit the justness of his 
complaint on my staircase, convej^ed in his 
laconic postscript toyour j^m W esprit, which 
I perused more than once, without discover- 
ing exactly whether your discussion was mu- 
sic, astronomy, or politics ; though a saga- 
cious friend, acquainted with the convivial 
habits of the poet and the musician, offered 
me a bet of two to one, you were just drown- 
ing care together ; that an empty bowl was 
the only thing that would deeply affect you, 
and the only matter you could then study 
how to remedy ! 

I shall be glad to see you give Robin Adair 
a Scottish dress. Peter is furnishing him 
with an English suit for a change, and you 
are well matched together. Robin's air is 
excellent, though he certainly has an out of 
the way measure as ever poor Parnassian 
wight was plagued with. I wish you would 
invoke the muse for a single elegant stanza 
to be substituted for the concluding objec- 
tionable verses of Down the Burn Davie, so 
that this most exquisite song may no longer 
be excluded from good company. 



■ * The song herewith sent, is that in p. 133, of 
the Poems. 



Mr. Allan has made an inimitable drawing 
from your John Anderson my Jo, which I am 
to have engraved as a frontispiece to the hu- 
morous cl »ss of songs : you will be quite 
charmed with it, I promise you. The old 
couplo are seated by tlie fireside. Mrs. An- 
derson, in great good humour, is clapping 
John's shoulders, while ho smiles, and looks 
at her with such glee, as to show that he 
/m//i/ recollects the pleasant days and nights 
when they were first acquent. The draw- 
ing would do honour to the pencil of Te- 
niers. 



No. XXXIII. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 

That criinkum-crankum tune Robin Adair, 
has run so in my head, and I succeeded so ill 
in my last attempt, that I have ventured in 
this morning's walk, one essay more. You, 
my dear Sir, will remember an unfortunate 
part of our worthy firiend C.'s story, which 
happened about three years ago. That 
struck my fancy, and I endeavoured to do 
the idea justice as follows -. 
• 

SONG. 

Had I cave on some wild distant shore, 
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing 
roar : 

See Poems, p. 110. 

By the way, I have met with a musical 
Highlander in Bredalbane's Fencibles, which 
are quartered here, who assures me that he 
well remembers his mother's singing Gaelic 
songs to both Robin Adair and Gramachree. 
They certainly have more of the Scotch than 
Irish taste in them. 

This man comes from the vicinity of In- 
verness; so it could not be any intercourse 
with Ireland that could bring them — except, 
what I shrewdly suspect to be the case, the 
wandering minstrels, harpers, and pipers, 
used to go frequently errant through the 
wilds both of Scotland and Ireland, and so 
some favourite airs might be common to 
both. A case in point — They have lately in 
Ireland, published an Irish air as they say; 
called Caun du delish. The fact is, in a pub- 
lication of Corri's, a great while ago, you 
will find the same air, called a Highland one, 
with a Gaelic song set to it. Its name there, 
I think, is Oran Gaoil, and a fine air it is. — 
Do ask honest Allan, or the Rev. Gaelic Par- 
son, about these matters. 



384 



LETTERS. 



No. XXXIV. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Augxist, 1793. 
My Dear Sir, 

Let vie in this ae night. I will consider. I 
am glad that you are pleased with my song, 
Had I a cave, &c., as I liked it myself. 

I walked out yesterday evening with a vo- 
lume of the Museum in my hand ; when 
turning up ^Uan Water, " What numbers 
shall the muse repeat," &:c. as the words ap 
peared to me rather unworthy of so fine an 
air, and recollecting that it is on your list, I 
sat and raved under the shadow of an old 
thorn, till I wrote one to suit the measure. I 
may be wrong ; but 1 think it not in my 
worst style. You must know, that in Ram- 
say's Tea-table, where the modern song first 
appeared, the ancient name of the tune, Al- 
lan says, is Man Water, or My love Annie's 
very honnie. This last has certainly been a 
line of the original snng ; so I took up the 
idea, and as you will see, have introduced 
the line in its place which I presume it for- 
merly occupied: though I likewise give you 
a chusing line, if it should not hit the cut of 
jour fancy. 

By Allan stream I chanced to rove, 
While Phoebus sank beyond Beiiled3i,* 

See Poems, p. 110. 

Bravo ! say I; it is a jjood song Should 
you think so too, (not else,) you can set the 
music to it, and let the other follow as Eng- 
lish verses. 

Autumn is my propitious season. I make 
more verses in it than all the year else. 

God bless you ! 



No. XXXV. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

.August, 1793. 

Is Whistle, and I'll come to thee my lad, 
one of vour airs ? I admire it much ; and 
yesterday I set the following verses to it. 
Urbani, whom I have met with here, begged 
them of me, as he admires the air much ; but 
as I understand that he looks with rather an 
evil eye on your work, I did not choose to 
comply. However, if the song does not suit 
your taste, I may possibly send it him. The 

* A mountain west of Strath-Allan, 3,000 feet 
high. R. B. 



set of the air which I had in ray eye is in 
Johnson's Museum. 

O whistle, and I'll come to you my lad,* 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad : 

See Poems, p. 133. 



Another favourite air of mine, is, The 
muckin o' Geordie's Byre, when sung slow 
with expression; I have wished that it had 
had better poetry } that I have endeavoured 
to supply as follows : 

Adown winding Nith did I wander, t 

To mark the sweet flowers as they spring : 

See Poems, p. 82. 

Mr. Clarke begs you to give Miss Phillis 
a corner in your book, as she is a particular 
flame of his. She is a Miss P. M. sister to 
Bonnie Jean. They are both pupils of his. 
You shall hear from me the very first grist I 
get from my rhyming mill. 



No. XXXVI. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August, 1783. 

That tune, Cauld Kail, is such a favour- 
ite of yours, that I once more roved out yes- 
terday for a gloarain-shot at the muses ;t 
when the muse that presides o'er the shores 
of Nith, or rather my old inspiring, dearest 
nymph, Coila, whispered me the following. 
I have two reasons for thinking that it was 
my early, sweet, simple inspirer that was by 
my elbow, " smooth gliding without step," 
and pouring the song on my glowing fancy. 
In the first place, since I left Coila's native 
haunts, not a fragment of a poet has arisen 
to cheer her solitary musings, by catching 

* In some of the ]\IS.S. the four first lines run 
thus I 

O whistle, and I'll come to thee, my jo, 
O whistle, and I'll come to thee, my jo ; 
Tho' father and mother, and a' should say no, 
O whistle, and I'll come to thee, my jo. 

See also Letter, No. LXXVIl. 

f This song, certainly beautiful, would appear 
to more advantage without the chorus ; as is in* 
deed tl)ecase with several other songs of our au- 
thor. E. 

\ Gloamin — Iwilight ; probably from glooming. 
A beautiful poetical word which ought to be 
adopted in England. .^ erloajn in-shot, a twilight 
interview. 



LETTERS. 



185 



inspiration from her ; so I more than suspect 
that she has followed me hither, or at least 
makes me occasional visits ; secondly, the 
last stanza of this song I send you, is the very 
words that Coila taught me many years ago, 
and which I set to an old Scots reel in John- 
son's Museum. 

Come let me take thee to my breast, 
And pledge we ne'er shall sunder ; 

See Poems, p. 133. 

If you think the above will suit your idea 
of your favourite air, I shall be highly pleased. 
The last time I came o'er the m^or, 1 cannot 
meddle with, as to mending it; and the mu 
sical world have been so long accustomed 
to Ramsay's words, that a different song, 
though positively superior, would not be so 
well received. I am not fond of choruses to 
songs, so I have not made one for the fore- 
going. 



No. XXXVII. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
August^ 1793. 

DAINTY DAVIE.* 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 

To deck her gay, green spreading bowers; 

.See Poems, p. 142. 

So much for Davie. The chorus, you 
know, is to the low part of the tune. See 
Clarke's set of it in the Museum. 

N. B, In the Museum they have drawled 
out the tune to twelve lines of poetry, which 
is ***** nonsense. Four lines of song, and 
four of chorus, is the way. 



No. XXXVIII. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 1st September, 1793. 

Mv Dear Sir, 

Since writing you last, I have received 
half a dozen songs, with which I am delighted 
beyond expression. The humour and fancy 
of Whistle, and Fll come to you, ray lad, will 
render it nearly as great a favourite as Dun- 

* Dainty Davie is the title of an old Scotch 
song, from which Bui*ns has taken nothing but 
the title and the measure. E. 



can Gray. Coyne, let me take thee to my 
breast — Adoicn winding JVith, and By Allan 
stream, &c., are fullofimagmation and feel- 
ing, and sweetly suit the airs for which they 
are intended. Had I a cave on some wild 
distant shore, is a striking and affecting com- 
position. Our friend, to whose story ii re- 
ftrs, read it with a svvellmg heart, 1 assure 
\ou. The union we ; re now forming, I 
think, can never be broken ; these sungs of 
ycmrs will descend with the music to the 
•atest posterity, and will be fondly cherished 
sa long as genius, taste, and sensibility, exist 
in our island. 

V^hile the muse seems so propitious, I 
think it right to enclose a list of all the fa- 
vours I have to ask of her, no fewer than 
twenty and three ! I have burdened the 
pleasant Peter with as many as it is probable 
he will attend to : most of the remaining airs 
would puzzle the English poet not a little ; 
they are of that peculiar iiieasure and 
rhythm, that they must be familiar to him 
who writes for them. 



No. XXXIX. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Sept. 1793. 

You may readily trust, my dear Sir, 
that any exertion in my power is readily at 
your service. But one thing I must hint to 
you ; the very name of Peter Pindar is of 
great service to your publication, so get a 
verse from him now and then ; though I 
have no objection, as well as I can, to bear 
the burden of the business. 

You know that my pretensions to musical 
taste are merely a few of nature's instincts, 
untaught and untutored by art. For this rea- 
son, many musical compositions, particularly 
where much of the merit lies in counterpoint, 
however they may transport and ravish the 
ears of you connoiseurs, affect my simple 
lug no otherwise than merely as melodious 
din. On the other hand, by way of amends, 
I am delighted with many little melodies, 
which the learned musician despises as silly 
and insipid. I do not knov/ whether the old 
air Hey tuttie taittie may rank among this 
number : but well I know that, with Frazer's 
hautboy, it has often filled my eyes with tears. 
There is a tradition, which I have met with 
in many places of Scotland, that it was Ro- 
bert Bruce's march at the battle of Bannock- 
barn. This thought, in my solitary wander- 
ings, warmed me to a pitch of enthusiasm on 
the theme of Liberty and Independence, 
which I threw into a kind of Scottish ode, 
fitted to the air,, that one might suppose to be 



186 



LETTERS. 



the gallant Royal Scot's address to his he- 
roic followers ou that eventful morning.* 



So may God ever 
Truth and Liberty, as 
Amen. 



defend the cause of 
He did that day!— 



P. S. I showed the air to Urbani, who 
was highly pleased with it, and begged me 
to make soft verses for it ; but I had no idea 
of giving myself any trouble on the subject, 
till the accidental recollection of that glo- 
rious struggle for freedom, associated with 
the glowing ideas of some other struggles of 
the same nature, not quite so ancient, roused 
my rhyming mania. Clarke's set of the tune, 
with his bass, you will find in the Museum ; 
though I am afraid that the air is not what 
will entitle it to a place in your elegant se- 
lection. 



No. XL. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 

I dare say, my dear Sir, that you will 
begin to think my correspondec.ee is perse- 
cution. No matter, I can't help it ; a ballad 
is my hobby-horse ; which though otherwise 
a simple sort of harmless idiotical beast 
enough, has yet this blessed headstrong pro- 
perty, that when once it has fairly made off 
with a hapless wight, it gets so enamoured 
with the tinkle-gingle, tinkle-gingle, of its 
own bells, that it is sure to run poor pilgar- 
lic, the bedlam-jockey, quite beyond any 
useful point or post in the common race of 
man. 

The following song I have composed for 
Oran Gaoil, the Highland air that you tell 
me in your last, you have resolved to give a 
place to in your book. I have this moment 
finished the song, so you have it glowing 
from the mint. If it suit you, well ! — if not, 
'tis also well ! 



Behold the hour, the boat arrive ; 

Thou goest, thou darling of my heart ! 

See Poems, p. 126. 

* Here followed Bruce's address as given in 
the Poems, p. 142. 

This noble strain was conceived by our poet 
during a storm among the wilds of Glen-Ken in 
Galloway. 



No. XLL 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 5th September, 1793. 

I believe it is generally allowed that the 
greatest modesty is the sure attendant of the 
greatest merit. While you are sending me 
verses that evtn Shakspeare might be proud 
to own, you speak of them as if they were 
ordinary productions ! Your heroic ode is 
to me the noblest composition of the kind in 
the Scotti.*h lanjruage. I happened to dine 
yesterday with a party of our friends, to 
whom I read it. 1'hey were all charmed 
with it; intreated me to find out a suitable 
air for it, and reprobated the idea of giving 
it a tune so totally devoid of interest or gran- 
deur as Hey tuttie taittie. Assuredly your 
piirtiality for this tune must arise from the 
ideas associated in your mind by the tradi- 
tion concerning it ; for I never heard any 
person, and I have conversed again and 
again, with the greatest enthusiasts for Scot- 
tish airs, I say I never heard any one speak 
of it as worthy of notice. 

I have been running over the whole hun- 
dred airs, of which I lately sent you the list ; 
and I think Lewie Gordon, is most happily 
adapted to your ode ; at least with a very 
slight variation cf the fourth line, which I 
shall presently submit to you There is in 
Lewie Gordon more of the grand than the 
plaintive, particularly when it is sung with 
a degree of spirit which your words will 
oblige the singer to give it. I would have 
no scruple about substituting your ode in 
the roi»m of Lewie Gordon, which has nei- 
ther the interest, the grandeur, nor the poetry 
that characterize your verses. Now the va- 
riation I have to suggest upon the last line 
of each verse, the only line too short for the 
air, is as follows : 

Verse 1st, Or to glorious victorie. 

2d, Chains — chains and slaverie. 
3d, Let him, let him turn and flie. 
4th, Let him bravely follow me. 
5th, But they shall, they shall be free. 
6th, Let us, let us do or die ! 

If you connect each line with its own verse, 
I do not think you will find either the senti- 
ment or the expression loses any of its ener- 
gy. The only line which I dislike in the 
whole of the song is, " Welcome to your 
gory bed." Would not another word be pre- 
ferable to welcome? In your next I will ex- 
pect to be informed whether you agree to 
what I have proposed. The little alterations 
I submit with the greatest deference. 

The beauty of the verses you have made 
for Oran Gaoil will ensure celebrity for the 
air. 



LETTERS. 



187 



No. XLII. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

September f 1793. 

I have received your list, my dear Sir, 
and here go my observations on it.* 

Down the burn Davie, I have this mo- 
ment tried an alteration, leaving out the last 
half of the third stanza, and the first half of 
the last stanza, thus ; 

As down the burn they took their way 

And thro' the flowery dale ; 
His cheek to hers he aft did lay, 

And love was ay the tale. 

With " Mary, when shall we return, 

Sic pleasure to renew ?" 
Quoth Mary, *' Love, I like the burn, 

And ay shall follow you."t 

Thro^ the xcood Laddie — I am decidedly of 
opinion that both in this, and There'll never 
he peace till Jamie comes hame, the second or 
high part of the tune, being a repetition of 
the first part an octave higher, is only for in- 
strumental music, one would he much better 
omitted in singing. 

Coioden-knowes. Remember in your in- 
dex that the song in pure English to this 
tune, beginning, 

" When summer comes the swahis on Tweed," 

is the production of Crawfoid. Robert was 
his Christian name. 

Laddie lie near vie, must lie by me for some 
time. I do not know the air ; and until I am 
complete master of a tune, in my own sing- 
ing (such as it is,) I can never compose for 
it. My way is : 1 consider the poetic senti- 
ment correspondent to ray idea of the musi- 
cal expression ; then choose my theme ; be- 
gin one stanza; when that is composed, 
which is generally the most difficult part of 
the business, I walk out, sit down now and 
then, look out tor objects in nature around 
me that are in unison and harmony with the 
cogitations of my fancy, and workings of my 
bosom; humming every now and then the 
air, with the verses I have framed. When I 

* Mr. Thomson's list of songs for his publica- 
tion. In his remarks, the bard proceeds in order, 
and goes through the whole ; but on manv of 
them he merely signifies his approbation. AH 
bis remarks of any importance are presented to 
the reader. 

t This alteration Mr. Thomson has adopted 
(or at least intended to adopt), instead of the last 
stanza of the original song, which is objectiona- 
ble, in point of delicacv. E. 

47 



feel my muse beginning to jade, I retire to 
the solitary fire side of my study, and there 
commit my effusions to paper ; swinging at 
intervals on the hind legs of my elbow chair, 
by way of calling forth my own critical stric- 
tures, as my pen goes on. Seriously, this, 
at home, is almost invariably my way. 

What cursed egotism ! 

Gill Mot ice, I am for leaving out. It is a 
plaguy length ; the air itself is never sung ; 
and its place can well be supplied by one or 
two songs for fine airs that are not in your 
list. For instance, Craigieburn-wood, and. 
Pwifs Wife. The first, besides its intrinsic 
merit, has novelty ; and the last has high 
merit, as well as great celebrity. I have the 
original words of a song for the last air, in 
the hand-writing of the lady who composed 
it ; and they are superior to any edition of the 
song which the public has yet seen.* 

Highland Laddie. The old set will please 
a mere Scotch ear best ; and the new an 
Italianized one. There is a third, and what 
Oswald calls the old Highland Laddie, which 
pleases more than either of them. It is 
sometimes called Ginglan Johnnie ; it being 
the air of an old humourous tawdry song of 
that name. You will find it in the Museum, 
/ hae been at Croohieden, &c. I would ad- 
vise you in this musical quandary, to offer 
up your prayers to the muses for inspiring 
direction ; and in the meantime, waiting for 
this direction bestow a libation to Bacchus ; 
and there is not a doubt but you will hit on 
a judicious choice. Probatum Est. 

Jluld Sir Simon, I must beg you to leave 
out, and put in its place The Quaker's Wife. 

Blithe hae I been o'er the hill, is one of the 
finest songs ever I made in my life: and be- 
sides, is composed on a young lady, positive- 
ly the most beautiful, lovely woman, in the 
world. As I purpose giving you the names 
and designations of all my heroines, to ap- 
pear in some future edition of your work, 
perhaps half a century hence, you must cer- 
tainly include The bonniest lass in a' the 
zoarld in your collection. 

Daintic Davie, I have heard sung, nine- 
teen thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine 
times, and always with the chorus to the low 
part of the tune ; and nothing has surprised 
me so much as your opinion on this subject. 
If it will not suit as I proposed, we will lay 
two of the stanzas together, and then make 
the chorus follow. 

Fee him Father — I enclose you Frazer's 
set of this tune when he plays it slow ; in 

* This song, so much admired by our barH. 
will be found in p. 201. K, 



188 



LETTERS. 



fact he makes it the language of despair. I 
shall here give you two stanzas in that style, 
merely to try if it will be any imprDvement. 
Were it possible, in singing, to give it half 
the pathos which Frazer gives it in playing, 
it would make an admirabl}' pathetic song. 
I do not give these verses for any merit they 
have. I composed them at the time in which 
Patie Jinan's mifher died, that was about the 
back o' midnight ; and by the lea-side of a bowl 
of punch, which had overset every mortal in 
company, except the hautbois and the muse. 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast 

left me ever, 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast 

left me ever. 

See Poems, p. 133. 

Jockey and Jennie I would discard, and in 
its place would put There^s nae luck about 
the house, which has a very pleasant air, and 
which is positively the finest lore ballad in 
that style in the Scottish or perhaps any 
other language. When she came ben she bob- 
hit, as an air, is more beautiful tlian either, 
and in the andante way, would unite with a 
charming sentimental ballad. 

Sato ye my Father ? is one of my greatest 
favourites. The evening before last, I wan- 
dered out, and began a tender song ; in what 
I think is its native style. I must premise, 
that the old way, and the way to give most 
effect, is to have no starting note, as the fid- 
dlers call it, but to burst at once into the pa- 
thos. Every country girl sings — Saw ye my 
father, &c. 

My song is but just begun; and 1 should 
like, before I proceeded, to know your opi- 
nion of it. I have sprinkled it with the Scot- 
tish dialect, but it may easily be turned into 
correct English.* 



Todlin hame. Urbani mentioned an idea 
of his, which has long been mine, that this 
air is highly susceptible of pathos ; accord- 
ingly, you will soon hear him at your con- 
cert try it to a song of mine in the Museum ; 
Ye banks and braes o' bonny Doon. One 
song more and I have done ; Auld lang syne. 
The air is but mediocre ; but the following 
song, the old song of the olden times, and 
which has never been in print, nor even in 
manuscript, until I took it down from an old 
man's singing, is enough to recommend any 
air.t 

* This song begins, 
♦ Where are the joys I hae met in the morning.' E. 

t This song of the olden time is excellent. It 
is worthy of our bttr«l. 



AULD LANG SYNE. 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And never brought to min' .'' 

See Poems, p,. 141 . 

Now, I suppose I have tired your patience 
fairly. You must, after all is over, have a 
number of ballads, properly so called. Gill 
Morice, Tranent Muir, Mcpherson's Farewell, 
Battle of Sheriff Muir, or We ran and they 
ran, (I know the author of this charming bal- 
lad, and his history), Hardiknutc, Barbara 
Allan, (I can furnish a finer set of this tune 
than any that has yet appeared), and besides, 
do you know that I really have the old tune 
to which The Cherry and the Slae was sung ; 
and which is mentioned as a well known air 
in Scotland's complaint, a book published be- 
fore poor Mary's days It was tjien called 
The Banks o' Helicon; an old poem which 
Pinkerton has brought to light. You will see 
all this in Tytler's history of Scottish music. 
The tune, taa learned ear, may have no great 
merit ; but it is a great curiosity. I have a 
good many original things of this kind. 



No. XLIII. 
MR. BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 

I am happy, my dear Sir, that my ode 
pleases you so much. Your idea " honour's 
bed," is, though a beautiful, a hackneyed 
idea; so, if you please, we will let the line 
stand as it is. I have altered the song as fol- 
lows: 

BANNOCKBURN. 

ROBERT BRUCe's ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has often led ; 

See Poems, p. 142. 

N. B. I have borrowed the last stanza from 
the common stall edition of Wallace. 

" A false usurper sinks in every foe, 
And liberty returns with every blow." 

A couplet worthy of Homer. Yesterday 
you had enough of my correspondence. The 
post goes, ana my head aches miserably. — 
One comfort! — I suffer so much, just now, 
in this world, for last night's joviality, that I 
shall escape scot-free for it in. the world to 
come.— Amen. 



LETTERS. 



189 



No. XLIV. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

I2th September, 1793. 

A thousand thanks to you, my 4ear Sir, 
for your observations on the list of my songs. 
I am happy to find your ideas so much in uni- 
son with my own, respecting the generality 
of the airs as well as the verses. About some 
of them we differ, but there is no disputing 
about hobby-horses. I shall not fail to profit 
by the remarks you make ; and to re-consi- 
der the whole with attention. 

Dainty Davie must be sung two stanzas 
together, and then the chorus : 'tis the pro- 
per way. I a^ree with you that there may 
be something' of pathos, or tenderness at 
least, m the air of Fee him Father, when per- 
formed with feeling ; but a tender cast may 
be given almost to any lively air, if you sing 
it very slowly, expressively, and with serious 
words. I am, however, clearly and invaria- 
bly for retaining the cheerful tunes joined to 
their own humourous verses, wherever the 
verses are passable. But the sweet song for 
Fee him Father, v/hich you began about the 
back of midnight, I will publish as an addi- 
tional one. Mr, James Balfour, the king of 
good fellows, and the best singer of the lively 
Scottish ballads that ever existed, has charm- 
ed thousands of companies with Fee him Fa- 
ther, and with Todlin hamc also, to the old 
words, which never should be disunited from 
these airs — some Bacchanals I would wish to 
discard Fy, leVs a' to the bridal, for in- 
stance, is so coarse and vulgar, that I think 
it fit only to be sung in a company of drunk- 
en colliers ; and Saw ye my Father ? appears 
to me both indelicate and silly. 

One word more with regard to your he- 
roic ode. I think, with great deference to 
the poet, that a prudent general would avoid 
saying any thing to his soldiers which would 
tend to make death more frightful than it is. 
Gory presents a disagreeable image to the 
mind, and to tell them " Welcome to your 
gory bed," seems rather a discouraging ad- 
dress, notwithstanding the alternative which 
follows. I have shown the song to three 
friends of excellent taste, and each of them 
objected to this line, which embolden me to 
use the freedom of bringing it again under 
your notice. I would suggest, 

*' Now prepare for honour's bed, 
Of for glorious victorie " 



No. XLV. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 
*' Who shall decide when doctors disa- 
gree ?" My ode pleases me so much that I 



cannot alter it. Your proposed alterations 
would, in my opinion, make it tame. I am 
exceedingly obliged to you for putting me on 
reconsidering it ; as 1 think J have much im- 
proved it. Instead of " soger ! hero !" I will 
have it " Caledonian ! on wi' me !" 

1 have scrutinized it over and over ; and 
to the world some way or other it shall go 
as it is. At the same time it will not in the 
least Imrt me, should you leave it out alto- 
gether, and adhere to your first intention of 
adopting Logan's verses.* 

* Mr. Thomson has very properly adopted 
this song (ifitmaybe so called,) as the bard 
presented it to him. He has attached it to the 
air of Lewie Gordon, and perhaps among the 
existing airs he could not find a better; but the 
poetry is suited to a much higher strain of music, 
and may employ the genius of some Scottish 
Handel, if any such should in future arise. The 
reader will have observed, that Burns adopted 
the alterations proposed by his friend and corres- 
pondent in former instances, with great readi- 
ness : perhaps, indeed, on all indifferent occa- 
sions. In the present instance, however, he re- 
jected them, though repeatedly urged, with deter- 
mined resolution. With every respect for the 
judgment of Mr. Thomson and his friends, we 
may be satisfied that he did so. He, who in pre- 
paring for an engagement, attempts to withdraw 
his imagination from images of death, will pro- 
bably have but imperfect success, and is not fit- 
ted to stand in the ranks of battle, where the li- 
berties of a kingdom are at issue. Of such men 
the conquerors of Bannockburn were not com- 
posed. Bruce's troops were inured to war, and 
familiar with all its sufferings and dangers. On 
the eve of that memorable day, their spirits were, 
without doubt, wound up to a pitch of enthusi- 
asm, suited to the occasion ; a pitch of enthusi- 
asm, at which danger becomes attractive, and 
the most terrific forms of death arc no longer ter- 
rible. Such a strain of sentiment, this heroic 
" welcome" may be supposed well calcidated to 
elevate — to raise their hearts high above fear, 
and to nerve their arms lo ihe utmost pitch of 
mortal exertion. These observations might be 
illustrated and supported by a reference to that 
martial poetry of all nations, from the spirit-stir- 
ring strains of Tyrtaeus, to the war song of Ge- 
neral W^olfe. Mr. Thomson's observation, that 
" Welcome to your gory l^ed, is a discouraging 
address," seems not sufficiently considered. — 
Perhaps, indeed, it may be admitted, that the 
term gory is somewhat objectionable, not on ac- 
count of its presenting a frightful, but a disagree- 
able image to the mind. But a great poet, utter- 
ing iiis conceptions on an interesting occasion, 
seeks always to present a picture that is vivid, 
and is uniformly disposed to sacrifice the delica- 
cies of taste on the altar of the imagination. And 
it is the privilege of superior genius, by produc- 
ing a new association, to elevate expressions that 
were originally low, and thus to triumph over 
the deficiencies of language. In how many in- 
stances might this be exemplified from the works 
of our immortal Shakspeare : 

** Who \vou\6 fardels bear, 
To groan and wert/ under a weary life :— 



190 



LETTERS. 



I have finished my song to Saw ye my Fa- 
ther 9 and in EngUsh, as you will see. That 
there is a syllable too much for the expres- 
sion of the air, is true ; but allow me to say, 
that the mere dividing of a dotted crotchet 
into a crotchet and a quaver, is not a great 
matter ; however, in that I have no preten- 
sions to cope in judgment with you. Of the 
poetry I speak with confidence ; but the mu- 
sic is a business where I hint my ideas with 
the utmost difiidence. 

The old verses have merit, though une- 
qual, and are popular : my advice is, to set 
the air to the old words, and let mine follow 
as English verses. Here they are — 

FAIR JENNY. 

See p. 188. 

Tunc — " Saw ye my Father .^" 

Where are the joys I have met in the morn- 
ing; 
That danc'd to the lark's early song ? 

See Poems, p. 134. 

Adieu, my dear Sir ! the post goes, so I 
shall defer some other remarks until more 
leisure. 



No. XLVI. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
September, 1793. 

I have been turning over some volumes 
of songs, to find verses whose measures 
would suit the airs, for which you have al- 
lotted me to find English songs. 

For Muirland WiUie, you have, in Ram- 
say's Tea-table, an excellent song, beginning, 
" Ah ! why those tears in Nelly's eyes .'" As 
for The Collier's Dochter, take the following 
old Bacchanal. 

Deluded swain, the pleasure 
The fickle Fair can give thee, 

See Poems, p. 110. 

The faulty line in Logan- Water, I mend 
thus: 

" How can your flinty hearts enjoy, 
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry .'"' 

When he himself might his quietus make 
With a bare bodkin .'" 

It were easy to enlarge, but to suggest such re- 
flections is probably sufficient. 



The song otherwise will pass. As to 
M'^ Gregoira Rua Ruth, you will see a spng of 
mine to it, with a set of the air superior to 
yours, in the Museum, Vol. ii. p. 181. The 
song begins, 

*' Raving winds around her blowing." 

Your Irish airs are pretty, but they are 
downright Irish. If they were like the 
Banks of Banna, for instance, though really 
Irish, yet in the Scottish taste, you might 
adopt them. Since you are so fond of Irish 
music, what say you to twenty-five of them 
in an additional number ? We could easily 
find this quantity of charming airs : I will 
take care that you shall not want songs ; 
and I assure you that you would find it the 
most saleable of the whole If you do not 
approve of /?o?/'5 Wife, iov the music's sake, 
we shall not insert it. Deil take the tears, 
is a charming song ; so is, Saw ye m,y Peg- 
gy ? There's na luck about, the house, well 
deserves a place. I cannot say that O'er the 
hills and far aiva, strikes me as equal to your 
selection. This is no mine ain house, is a 
great favourite air of mine : and if you will 
send me your set of it, I will task my muse 
to her highest effort. What is your opinion 
of / hae laid a herrin in saiot ? I like it 
much. Your Jacobite airs are pretty ; and 
there are many others of the same kind, 
pretty ; but you have not room for them. 
You cannot, I think, insert Fie, let us a' to 
the bridal, to any other words than its own. 

What pleases me, as simple and waiwe, dis- 
gusts you as ludicrous and low. For this 
reason. Fie, gic me my cogie, sirs — Fie, let 
us a' to the bridal, with several others of that 
cast, are to me highly pleasing ; while, Saio 
ye my Father, or saw ye my Mother; delights 
me with its descriptive simple pathos. Thus 
my song, Ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has 
gotten ? pleases myself so much that I can- 
not try my hand at another song to the air ; 
so I shall not attempt it. I know you will 
laugh at all this : but, " Ilka man wears his 
belt his ain gait." 



No. XLVII. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

October, 1793. 

Your last letter, my dear Thomson, was 
indeed laden with heavy news. Alas, poor 
Erskine !* The recollection that he was a 
coadjutor in your publication, has till now 



* The Honourable A. Erskine, brother to Lord 
Kelly, whose melancholy death Mr. Thomson 
had communicated in an excellent letter, which 
he has suppressed. 



J.ETTERS. 



191 



«5cared me from writing to you, or turning 
my thoughts (-n composing f )r you. 

I am pleased that you are reconciled to the 
air of the Quaker's Wife; though, by the by, 
an old Highland gentleman, and a deep an- 
tiquarian, tells me it is a Gaelic air, and 
known by the name of Leiger 'm choss. The 
following verses, I hope, will please you as 
an English song to the air. 

Thine am I, my faithful fair, 
Thine, my lovely Nancy ; 

See Poems, p. 110. 

Your objection to the English song I pro- 
posed for John Anderson my jo As cerVAin\y 
just. The following is by an old acquaint- 
ance of mine, and I think has merit. The 
song was never in print, which I think is so 
much in your favour The more original 
good poetry your collection contains, it cer- 
tainly has so much the more merit. 

SONG. 

BY GAVIN TURNBULL. 

O, condescend, dear charming maid, 

My wretched state to view ; 
A tender swain to love betray'd, 

And sad despair, by you. 

While here, all melancholy, 

My passion I deplore, 
Yet, urged by stern resistless fate, 

I love thee more and more. 

I heard of love, and with disdain, 

The urchin's power denied; 
Ilaugh'd at every lover's pain, 

And mock'd them when they sigh'd. 

But how my state is alter'd I 

Those happy days are o'er ; 
For all thy unrelenting hate, 

I love thee more and more. 

O yield, illustrious beauty, yield, 

No longer let me mourn ; 
And though victorious in the field. 

Thy captive do not scorn. 

Let generous pity warm thee, 

My wonted peace restore ; 
And, grateful, I shall bless thee still, 

And love thea more and more. 



The following address of Turnbull's to th. 
Nightingale, will suit as an English song to 
the air, There was a lass and siie was fair 
By the by. Turnbull has a great many song- 
in MS. which I can command ;if you like his 



manner. Possibly, as he is an old friend of 
mme, I may be prejudiced in his favour, but 
I like some of his pieces very much. 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 

BY O. TURNBULL. 

Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove, 
That ever tried the plaintive strain, 

Awake thy tender tale of love, 
And soothe a poor forsaken swain. 

For though the muses deign to aid, 
And teach him smoothly to complain ; 

Yet Delia, charming, cruel maid, 
Is deaf to her forsaken swain. 

All day, with fashion's gaudy sons, 
In sport she wanders o'er the plain : 

Their tales approves, and still she shuns 
The notes of her forsaken swain. 

When evening shades obscure the sky, 
And bring the solemn hours again, 

Begin, sweet bird, thy melody, 
And soothe a poor forsaken swain. 



I shall just transcribe another of Turn- 
bull's, which would go charmingly to Lewie 
Gordon. 



LAURA. 



BY G. TURNBULL. 



Let me wander where I will, 
By shady wood or winding rill ; 
Where the sweetest Vlay-norn flowers 
Paint the meadows deck the bowers ; 
Where the linnet's early song 
Echoes sweet the woods among ; 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my fancy still. 

If at rosy dawn I choose 

To induljj e the smiling muse ; 

If I court some cool retreat, 

To avoid the noon-tide heat; 

If beneath 'he moon's pale ray. 

Through unfrequented wilds I stray, 

Let me wander where I will, 

Laura haunts my fancy still. 

When at night the drowsy god 
Waves his sleep-compelling rod, 
And to fancy's wakeful eyes 
Bids celestial visions rise ; 
While with boundless joy I rove, 
Thro' the fairy land of love ; 



192 



LETTERS. 



Let me wander where 1 will, 
Laura haunts my fancy still. 



The rest of your letter I shall answer at 
some other opportunity. 



No. XLVin. 

MR THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

7tk /fovember, 1793. 

My Good Sir, 

After so long a silence, il gave me pe- 
culiar pleasure to recognize your well-known 
hand, for I had begun to be apprehensive 
that all was not well with you. 1 am happy 
to find, however, that your silence did not 
proceed from that cause, and that you have 
got among the ballads once more. 

I have to thank you for your English song 
to Leiger 'm choss, which I think extremely 
good, although the colouring is warm Your 
friend Mr. Turnbull's songs have, doubtless 
considerable merit; and as you have the 
command of his manuscripts I hope you ^yill 
find out some that will answer, as English 
songs, to the airs yet unprovided. 



No. XLIX. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
December^ 1793. 

Tell me how you like the following 
verses to the tune of Jo Janet. 

Husband, husband, cease your strife, 
Nor longer idly rave, Sir ; 

See Poems, p. 111. 



Wilt thou be my dearie ? 

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, 

Wilt thou let me cheer thee -* 

See Poems, p. 111. 



No. L. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, \7th April, 1794. 

My Dear Sir, 

Owing to the distress of our friend for 
the loss of his child, at the time of his re- 
ceiving your admirable but melancholy let- 



ter, I had not an opportunity, till lately, of 
perusing it.* How sorry 1 am to find Burns 
saying, " Canst thou not minister to a mind 
diseased ?'" while he is delighting others 
from one end of the island to the other. Like 
the hypochondriac who went to consult a 
physician upon his case — Go, says the doc- 
tor, and see the famous Carlini, who keeps 
all Paris in good humour. Alas ! Sir, re- 
plied the patient, I am that unhappy Carlini ! 

Your plan for our meeting together pleases 
me greatly, and I trust that by some means 
or other it will soon take place ; but your 
Bacchanalian challenge almost frightens me, 
for I am a miserable weak drinker ! 

Allan is much gratified by your good opi- 
nion of his talents. He has just begun a 
sketcJi from your Cotter's Saturday JVight, 
and if it pleases himself in the design, he will 
probably etch or engrave it In subjects of 
the pastoral and humourous kind, he is per- 
haps unrivalled by any artist living. He fails 
a little in giving beauty and grace to his fe- 
males, and his colouring is sombre, other- 
wise his paintings and drawings would be in 
greater request. 

l like the music of the Sutor's Dochter, 
and will consider whether it shall be added 
to the last volume ; your veises to it are 
pretty : but your humorous English song, to 
suit Jo Janet, is inimitable. What think you 
of the air, Within a mile of Edinburgh ? It 
has always struck me as a modern imitation, 
but it is said to be Oswald's, and is so much 
liked, that I believe I must include it. The 
verses are little better than namby-pamhy. 
Do you consider it worth a stanza or two .'' 



No. LI. 



MR BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

May, 1794. 
My Dear Sir, 

I return you the plates, with which I am 
highly pleased; I would humbly propose in-- 
stead of the younker knitting stockings, to 
put a stock and horn into his hands. A ^iend 
of mine, who is positively the ablest judge 
on the subject I have ever met with, and 
though an unknown, is yet a superior artist 
with the Burin, is quite charmed with Al- 
lan's manner. I got him a peep of the Gen- 
tle Shepherd; and he pronounces Allan a 
most original artist of great excellence. 

For my part, I look on Mr. Allan's choos- 
ing my favourite poem for his subject, to be 



* A letter to Mr. Cunningham, No. CL. of the 
General Correspondence. 



LETTERS. 



193 



one of the highest compliments I have ever 
received. 

I am quite vexed at Pleyel's beinop cooped 
up in France, as it will put an entire stop to 
our work. Now, and for six or seven months, 
I shall he quite in song, as you shall see by 
and by. I got an air, pretty enough, com- 
posed by Lady Elizabeth Heron, of Heron, 
which she calls The Banks of the Ciee. Cree 
is a beautiful romantic stream ; and as her 
Ladyship is a particular friend of mine, I 
have written the following song to it. 

BANKS OF CREE. 

Here is the glen, and here the bower ; 
All underneath the birchen shade ; 

See Poems, p. 111. 



No. LIL 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

JwZt/, 1794. 

Is there no news yet of Pleyel ? Or is 
your work to be at a dead stop, until the al- 
lies set our modern Orpheus at liberty from 
the savage thraldom of democratic discords? 
Alas the day ! And wo is me ! That auspi- 
cious period pregnant with the happiuess of 
millions.* — **«*»*. 

I have presented a copy of your songs to 
the daughter of a much-valued and much-ho- 
noured friend of mine, Mr. Graham, of Fin- 
try. I wrote on the blank side of the title- 
page the following address to the young lady. 

Here, where the Scottish muse immortal 

lives 
In sacred strains and tuneful number join'd, 

■See Poems. 



No. LIII. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 
Edinburgh, ]0</i August, 1794. 

My Dear Sir, 

I owe you an apology for having so long 
delayed to acknowledge the favour of your 
last. I fear it will be as you say, I shall 
have no more songs from Pleyel till France 
and we are friends ; but nevertheless, I am 



* A portion of this letter has been left out for 
reasons that will easilv be imagined. 



very desirous to be prepared with the poetry ; 
and as the season approaches in which your 
muse of Coila visits you, I trust I shall, as 
formerly, be frequently gratified with the 
result of your amorous and tender inter- 
views ! 



No. LIV. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Wth August, 1794. 

The last evening, as I was straying out, 
and thinking of, O'er the hills and far away, 
I spun the following stanzas for it ; but whe- 
ther my spinning will deserve to be laid up 
in store, like the precious thread of the silk- 
worm, or brushed to the devil, Uke the vile 
manufacture of the spider, I leave, my dear 
Sir, to your usual candid criticism. I was 
pleased with several lines in it at first ; but I 
own that now it appears rather a flimsy bu- 
siness. 

This is just a hasty sketch until I see whe- 
ther it be worth a critique. We have many 
sailor songs, but as far as I at present rfjcol- 
lect, they are mostly the effusions of the jo- 
vial sailor, not the wailings of his love- lorn 
mistress. I must here make one sweet ex- 
ception — Sweet Annie frae the sea-beach 
came. Now for the song. 

ON THE SEAS AND FA.R AWAY. 

How can my poor heart be glad. 
When absent from my sailor lad .'' 

See Poems, p. 111. 

I give you leave to abuse this song, but do 
it in the spirit of Christian meekness. 



No. LV. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, IQth September, 1794. 

My Dear Sir, 

You have anticipated my opinion of On 
the seas and fur away ; I do not think it one 
of your very happy productions, though it 
certainly contains stanzas that are worthy 
of all acceptation 

The second is the least to my liking, par- 
ticularly " Bullets, spare my only joy !" Con- 
found the bullets ! It might, perhaps, be ob- 
jected to the third verse, " At the starless 
midnight hour," that it has too much gran- 
deur of imagery, and that greater simplicity 



194 



LETTERS. 



of thought would have better suited the cha- 
racter of a sailor's sweetheart. ! he tune, it 
must be remembered, is nf the brisk, cheer- 
ful kind. Upon the whole, therefore, in my 
huinb'e opinion, the song would be better 
adapted to the tune, if it consisted only of 
the first and last verses with the choruses. 



No. LVI. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

September , 1794. 

I shall withdraw my, On the seas and 
far away, altogether ; it is unequal, and un- 
worthy the work. Making a poem is like be- 
gettina- a son ; you cannot know whether you 
have a wise man or a fool, until you produce 
him to the world to try him. 

For that reason I send you the offspring of 
my brain ; abortions and all; and, as such, 
pray look over them, and forgive them, and 
burn* them I am flattered at your adopt- 
ing Ca' the yowcs to the knowes, as it was 
owing to me that it ever saw the lig-ht. — 
About seven years ago I wus well acquainted 
with a worthy little fellow of a clergyman, a 
Mr. Clunie, who sung it charmingly ; and, 
at my request, Mr. Clarke took it d<>wn from 
his singing. When J gave it to Johnson, I 
added some stanzas to the song and mended 
others, but still it will not do for you In a 
solitary stroll which I took to-day, I tried my 
hand on a few pastoral lines, following up 
the idea of the chorus, which 1 would pre- 
serve. Here it is, with all its crudities and 
imperfections on its head 

CHORUS. 

Co' the yowts to the knowes, 

Ca' them where the heather groics, 

See Poems, p. 112. 

I shall give you my opinion of your other 
newly adopted songs my first scribbling fit. 



No. LVIT. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1794. 

Do you know a blackguard Irish song, 
called OnagKs Water-fail ? The air is 

* This Virgilian order of the Poet should, I 
think, be disobeyed with respect to the song in 
question, the second stanza excepted. JVote by 
Mr. Thomson. 

Doctors differ. The objection to the second 
stanza does not strike the Editor, E. 



charming, and I have often regretted the 
want of decent verses to it. It is too much 
at least for my humble rustic muse, to ex- 
pect that every efF rt of hers shall have me- 
rit ; still 1 think that it is better to have me- 
diocre verses to h favouritt air, than none at 
all. On this principle 1 have all along pro- 
ceeded in tlie Scots Musical Museum ; and 
as that publication is at its last volume, 1 in- 
tend the following 8<>ng to the air above- 
mentioned, for that work. 

If it does not suit you as an editor, yon 
may be pleased to have verses to it that you 
can sing before ladies. 

SHE SAYS SHE LOE's ME BKST OF a'. 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets. 
Her eye-brows of a darker hue, 

See Poems, p. 112. 

Not to compare small things with great, 
my tastt^ in music is like the mighty Frede- 
rick of Prussia's taste in painting ; we are 
told that he frequently admired what the 
connoiseurs decried, and always without any 
hypocrisy confessed his admiration. I am 
sensible that my taste in music must be in- 
elegant and vulgar, because people of undis- 
puted and cultivated tas'e can find no merit 
in my favourite tunes. Still, because I am 
cheaply pleased ^ is that any reason why I 
should deny myself that pleasure .'' Many of 
our strathspeys, ancient and modern, give 
me most exquisite enjoyment, where you and 
other judges would probably be showing dis- 
gust. For instance, I am just now making 
verses for Rothiemufchie's Rant, an air which 
puts me in raptures , and. in fact, unless I 
be pleased with the tune, I never can make 
verses to it. Here I have Clarke on my side 
who is a judge that I will pit against any of 
you. Rothiemtirchie, he says, is an air both 
original and beautiful ; and on his recom- 
mendation I have taken the first part of the 
tune for a chorus, and the fourth or last part 
for the song. lam but two stanzas deep in 
the work, and possibly you may think, and 
justly, that the poetry is as little vvorth your 
attention as the music. ^ 

I have begun anew. Let me in thisae night. 
Do you think that we ought to retain the old 
chorus .'' I think we must retain both the old 
chorus and the first stanza of tiie old song. I 
do not altogether like the third line of the 
first stanza, but cannot alter it to please my- 
self I am just three stanzas deep in it. — 
Would you have the denouement to be suc- 
cessful or otherwise .' should she *' let him 
in," or not ? 



* In the original, follow here two stanzas of 
a song, beginning *' Lassie wi' the lint-whiie 
locks." 



LETTERS. 



195 



Did you not once propose The Sow's Tail 
to Geordie, as an air for your v, ork ? I am 
quite diverted with it ; but I acknowledge 
that is no mark o\' its real «xcellence. I once 
set about verses for it, which I meant to be 
in the alternate way of a lover and his mis- 
tress chanting together. I have not the 
pleasure of knowing Mrs. Thomson's Chris- 
tian name, and yours I am afraid is rather 
burlesque for sentiment, else I had meant to 
have made you the hero and the heroine of 
the little piece. 

How do you like the following epigram, 
which 1 wrote the other day on a lovely 
young girl's recovery from a fever ? Doc- 
tor Maxwell was the physician who seem- 
ingly saved her from the grave ; and to him 
I address the following. 

TO DR. MAXWELL, 

ON MISS JESSY STAIg's RECOVERY. 

Maxwell, if merit here you crave, 

That merit I deny : 
You save fair Jessy from the grave .'' — 

An angel could not die. 

God grant you patience with this stupid 
epistle ! 



No. LVIII. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

I perceive the sprightly muse is now at- 
tendant upon her favourite poet, whose wood- 
notes wild are becoming as enchanting as 
ever. She says she lo'es me best of a', is one 
of the pleasantest table songs I have seen, 
and henceforth shall be mine when the song 
is going round. I'll give Cunningham a co- 
py : he can more powerfully proclaim its 
merit. I am far from undervaluing your 
taste for the strathspey music ; on the con- 
trary, I think it highly animating and agree- 
able, and that some of the strathspeys, when 
graced with such verses as yours, will make 
very pleasing songs in the same way that 
rough Christians are tempered and softened 
by lovely woman ; without whom, you know, 
they had been brutes. 

I am clear for having the Sow's Toil, par- 
ticularly as your proposed verses to it are so 
extremely promising. Geordie, as you ob- 
serve,. is a name only fit for burlesque com- 
position. Mrs. Thomson's name (Kalhe- 
rine) is not at all poetical. Retain Jeanie 
therefore, and make the other Jamie, or any 
other that sounds agreeably. 

Your Ca' the ewes is a precious little mor- 
^eau. Indeed. lam perfectly astonishedand 

'18 



charmed with the endless variety of your 
fancy. Here let me ask you, whether you 
nevor seriously turned your thoughts upon 
dramatic writing ? That is a field worthy of 
your genius, in which it might shine forth in 
all its splendor. One or two successful 
pieces upon the London stage would make 
your fortune. The rage at present is for 
musical dramas : few or none of those which 
have appeared since the Duenna, possess 
much poetical merit : there is little in the 
conduct of the fable, or in the dialogue, to 
interest the audience. They are chiefly ve- 
hicles for music and pageantry. I think you 
might produce a comic opera in three acts, 
which would live by the poetry, at the same 
time that it would be proper to take every 
assistance frorri her tuneful sister. Part of 
the songs, of course, would be to our favour- 
ite Scottish airs ; the rest might be left to the 
London composer — Storace for Drury-lane, 
or Shield for Covent-garden ; both of them 
very able and popular musicians. I believe 
that interest and manoeuvring are often ne- 
cessary to have a drama brought on ; so it 
may be with the namby-pamby tribe of flow- 
ery scribblers; but were you to address Mr, 
Sheridan himself by letter, and send him a 
dramatic piece, lam persuaded he would, for 
the honour of genius, give it a fair and caur 
did trial. Excuse me for obtruding these 
hints upon your consideration.* 



No. LIX. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 
Edinburgh, Uth October, 1794. 

The last eight days have been devoted 
to the re-examination of the Scottish collec- 
tions. I have read, and sung, and fiddled, 
and considered, till I am half blind and whol- 
ly stupid. The few airs I have added are 
enclosed. 

Peter Pindar has at length sent me all the 
songs I expected from him, which are in ge^ 
neral elegant and beautiful. Have you heard 
of a London collection of Scottish airs and 
songs, just published by Mr. Ritson, an 
Englishman ? I shall send you a copy. His 
introductory essay on the subject is curious, 
and evinces great reading and research, but 
does not decide the question as to the origin 
of our melodies ; though he shows clearly 
that Mr. Tytler, in his ingenious disserta- 
tion, has adduced no sort of proof of the hy- 
pothesis he wished to establish ; and that his 
classification of the airs accordin«T to the 



* Our bard had before received the same ad- 
vice, and certainly took it so far into considera* 
tion, a? to have cast alTnnt for a s'lhifrt. f^. 



196 



LETTERS. 



eras, when they were composed, is mere 
fancy and conjecture. On Jolin Pinkcrton, 
Esq. he has no mercy ; but consigns him to 
damnation! He snarls at my publication, 
on the score of Pindar being engaged to 
write some songs for it ; uncandidly and un- 
justly leaving it to be inferred, that the songs 
of Scottish writers had been sent a packing 
to make room for Peter's ! Of you he speaks 
with some respect, but gives you a passing 
bit or two, for daring to dress up a little, 
some old foolish songs for the Museum. His 
sets of the Scottish airs, are taken, he says, 
froni the oldest collections and best authori- 
ties : many of them, however, have such a 
strange aspect, and are so unlike the sets 
which are sung by every person of laste 



vourite Crag lehurn-wood , in your selection ; 
it is as great a favourite of his aa of mine. 
The lady on whom it was made, is one of the 
finest women in Scotland ; and in fact {en- 
trenous) is in a manner to me, what Sterne's 
Eliza was to him — a mistress, or friend, or 
what you will in the guileless simplicity of 
Platonic love. (Now don't put any of your 
squinting constructions on this, or have any 
clish-maclaver about it among our acquaint- 
ances.) I assure you that to my lovel> friend 
you are indebted for many of your best songs 
of mine. Do you think that the sober, gin- 
horse routine of existence, could inspire a 
man with life, and love, and joy — could fire 
him with enthusiasm, or melt him with pa- 
thos, equal to the genius of your book .-' No ! 



old or young, in town or country, that we ^ no ! — Whenever I want to be more than or 
can scarcely recognize the features of our 
favourites. By going to the oldest collec- 
tions of our music, it does not follow that we 
find the melodies in their original state. — 
These melodies had been preserved, we 
know not how long, by oral communication, 
before being collected and printed } and as 
different persons sin^ the same air very dif- 
ferently, according to their accurate or con- 
fused recollections of it, so even supposing 
the first collectors to have possessed the in- 
dustry, the taste, and-. discernment to choose 
the best they could hear (which is far from 
certain,) still it must evidently be a chance, 
whether the collections exhibit any of the 
melodies in the state they were first com- 
posed. In selecting the melodies for my 
own collection, I have been as much guided 
by the living as by the dead. Where these 
differed, I preferred the sets that appeared to 
me the most simple and beautiful, and the 
most generally approved j and without mean- 
ing any compliment to my own capability of 
choosing, or speaking of the pains I have 
taken, 1 flatter myself that my sets will be 
found equally freed from vulgar errors on 
the one hand, and affected graces on the 
other. 



dinary in song ; to be in some degree equal 
to your diviner airs ; do you imagine that I 
fast and pray for the celestial emanation ? — 
Tout au contrarie ! I have a glorious recipe ; 
the very one that for his own use was invent- 
ed by the divinity of healing and poetry, 
when erst he piped to the flocks of Admetus. 
I put myself in a regimen of admiring a fine 
woman; and in proportion to the ador ability 
of her charms, in the proportion you are de- 
lighted with my verses. The lightning of 
her eye is the godhead of Parnassus ; and 
the witchery of her smile, thedivinity of He- 
licon ! 

To descend to business : if you like my 
idea of When she cam ben she hobhit, the fol- 
lowing stanzas of mine, altered a little from 
what they were formerly when set to ano- 
ther air, may perhaps do instead of worse 
stanzas. 

SAW VE MY PHELY ? 



O, saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 

O, saw ye my dear, my Phely .' 

See Poems, p. 



134. 



No. LX. 
MR. J5URNS TO MR. THOMSON. 



\%th October, 1794. 



My Dear Friend, 



By this morning's post I have your list, 
and, in general, I highly approve of it. I 
shall, at more leisure, give you a critique on 
the whole. Clarke goes to your own town 
by to-day's fly, and I wish you would call on 
him and take his opinion in general : you 
know his taste is a standard. He will return 
here again in a week or two ; so please do 
■not miss asking for him. One thing I hope 
h.e will do — p.ersuade you to adopt ray fa- 



Now for a few miscellaneous remarks.— 
The Posie, (in the Museum) is my composi- 
tion ; the air was taken down from Mrs. 
Burns's voice.* It is well known in the 
West Country, but the old words arc trash. 
By the by, take a look at the tune again, and 
tell me if you do not think it is the original 
from which Roslin Castle is composed. The 
second part in particular, for the first two or 
three bars, is exactly the old air. Strathal- 
len^s Lament is mine j the music is by our 
right trusty and deservedly well beloved Al- 
lan Masterton. Donocht-Head is not mine ; 
I would give ten pounds it were. It appeared 
first in the Edinburgh Herald ; and came to 



* The Posie will be found in the Poems, p. 
111. This, and the other poems of which he 
speaks, had appeared in Johnson's Museum, 
and Mr. T. had inquired whether they were our 
bard's. 



LETTERS. 



197 



the editor of that paper with the Newcastle 
post-ma I k on it.* Whistle o'er the lave o't is 
mine ; tlie music is said to be by John Bruce, 
a celebrated violin-player in Dumfries, about 
the beginning of this century. This I know, 
Bruce, who was an honest man, though a 
redwud Highlandman, constantly claimed it ; 
and by all the oldest musical people here, is 
believed, to be the author of it. 

Andrew and his cutty gun. The song to 
which this is set in the Museum is mine, and 
was composed on Miss Euphemia Murray, 
of Lintrose, commonly and deservedly called 
the Flower of Strathmore. 

Hoic long and dreary is the night ! I met 
with some such words in a collection of songs 
somewhere, which I altered and enlarged ; 
and to please you, and to suit your favourite 
air, I have taken a stride or two across my 
room, and have arranged it anew, as you will 
find on the other page. 

SONG. 

How long and dreary is the night, 
When I am frae my dearie ! 

See Poems, p. 112. 

* The reader will be curious to see this Poem, 
so highly praised by Burns. Here it is. 

Keen blaws the winrl o'er Donocht-riead,f 

The snaw drives snelly thro' the dale ; 
The Gaber-lunzie tirls my sneck, 

And shivering, tells his waefu' tale : 
" Cauld is the night, O let me in, 

And dinna let your minstrel fa' ; 
And dinna let his winding sheet 

Be naelhing but a wreath o' snaw. 

" Full ninety winters hae I seen, 

And piped where gor-cocks whirring flew; 
And mony a day I've danced, I ween, 

To lilts which from my drone I blew." 
My Eppie waked, and soon she cried, 

' Get up, guidman, and let him in ; 
For weel ye ken the winter night 

Was short when he began his din.' 

My Eppie's voice O wow it's sweet. 

Even tiio' she bans and scaulds a wee ; 
But wiien it's tuned to sorrow's tale, 

O, haith, it's doubly dear to nie; 
Come in, auld carl, I'll steer my fire, 

I'll make it bleeze a bonnie flame ; 
Your I)luid is thin, ye've tint the gate, 

Ye should nae stray sae far frae hame. 

*' Nae hame have I," the minstrel said, 
" Sad party-strife o'erturn'd my ha' ; 

And weeping at the eve of life, 
I wander thro' a wreath of snaw." 

This affecting poem is apparently incomplete. 
The author need not be ashamed to own himself 
It is worthy of Burns, orofMacniel. E. 

t A mountain in the North. 



Tell me liow you like this. I differ from 
your idea of the expression of the tune. — 
There is, to me, a great deal of tenderness' 
in it. You cannot, in my opinion, dispense 
with a bass to your addenda airs. A lady of 
my acquaintance, a noted performer, plays 
and sings at the same time so charmingly, 
that I shall never bear to see any of her songs 
sent into the world, as naked as Mr. What* 
d'ye-call-um has done in his London collec' 
tion.** 

These English songs gravel me to death. 
I have not that command of the language 
that I have of my native tongue, I have 
been at Duncan Gray, to dress it in English, 
but all I can do is deplorably stupid." For 
instance;" 

SONG. 

Let not woman e'er complaizi 
Of inconstancy in love ; 

See Poc7n5, ^j. 134,. 
Since the above, I have been out in the 
country, taking a dinner with a friend, where 
I met with the lady whom I mentioned in 
the second-page in this odds-and-ends of a 
letter As usual I got into song ; and re- 
turning home I composed the following : 

THE lover's MOKNING SALUTE TO HIS 

MISTRESS, 

Sleep'st thou or waU'st thou, fairest cfea* 
ture ; 
Rosy morn now lifts his eye,t 

See Poems, p. 150. 

If you honour my verses by setting the 
air to them, I will vamp up the old song, and 
make it English enough to be understood. 

* Mr. Ritson. 

f From the fifth to the eleventh line of this 
song stood originally thus : 

Now to the streaming fountain. 
Or up the heathy mountain, 
The bait, hind, and roe, freely wildly-wanton- 
stray ; 
In twining hazel boweis 
His la}' the linnet pours; 
'1 lie lav'rock, &c. 

The last eight lines stood originally thus : 

When frae my Chloris parted, 

Sad, cheerless, broken-hearted, ' 
Tl>e night's gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, o'ercast 
my sky. 

But when she charms my sigbt. 

In pride of beauty's light : 

When thro' my very heart 

Her blooming glories dart : 
' Tis then, 'tis tlien I wake to life, and joy; E, 



198 



LETTERS, 



1 enclose you a musical curiosity, an East 
Indian air, which you would swear was a 
Scottish one. I know the authenticity of it, 
as the gentleman who brought it over, is a 
particular acquaintance of mine. Do pre- 
serve me the copy T send you, as it is the 
only one I have. Clarke has set a bass to it, 
and I intend putting it into the Musical Mu- 
seum. Here follow the verses I intend for it. 

THE AULD MAN. 

But lately seen in gladsome green, 
The woods rejoic'd the day. 

See Poems, p. 113. 

I would be obliged to you if you would 
procure me a sight of Ritson's collection of 
English songs, which you mention in your 
letter. 1 will thank you for another informa- 
tion, and that as speedily as you please : whe- 
ther this miserable drawling hotchpotch epis- 
tle has not completely tired you of my cor- 
respondence .-* 



No. LXI. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 
Edinburgh, 27th October, 1794. 

I am sensible, my dear friend, that a ge- 
nuine poet can no more exist without his 
mistress than his meat. I wish I knew the 
adorable she whose bright eyes and witching 
smiles have so often enraptured the Scottish 
bard! that I might drink her sweet health 
when the toast is going round. Cragieburn- 
tcood, must certainly be adopted into my fa- 
mily, since she is the object of the song ; but 
in the name of decency I must beg a new 
chorus-verse from you. O to be lying beyond 
thee, dearie, is perhaps a consummation to 
be wished, but will not do for singing in the 
company of ladies. The songs in your last 
will do you lasting credit, and suit the res- 
pective airs charmingly. I am perfectly of 
your opinion with respect to the additional 
airs. The idea of sending them into the 
world naked as they were born was ungene- 
rous. They must all be clothed and made 
decent by our friend Clarke. 

I find I am anticipated by the friendly Cun- 
ningham in sending you Ritson's Scottish 
collection. Permit me, therefore, to present 
you with his English collection, which you 
will receive by the coach. I do not find his 
historical essay on Scottish song interesting. 
Your anecdotes and miscellaneous remarks 
will, I am sure, be much more so. Allan 
has just sketched a charming design from 
Maggie Lauder. She is dancing with such 
.spirit as to electrify the piper, who seems 



almost dancing too, while he is playing with 
the most exquisite glee I am much inclined 
to get a small copy, and to have it engraved 
in the style of Ritson's prints. 

P. S. Pray what do your anecdotes say 
concerning Maggie Lauder P was she a real 
personage, and of what rank ? You would 
surely spier for herifyouca'dat Jinstruther 
town. 



No. Lxn. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

JVovember, 1794. 

Many thanks to you, my dear Sir, for 
your present. It is a book of the utmost im- 
portance to me. I have yesterday begun 
my anecdotes, &c. for your work. I intend 
drawing it up in the form of a letter to you, 
which will save me from the tedious, dull bu- 
siness of systematic arrangement. Indeed, as 
all I have to say consists of unconnected re- 
marks, anecdotes, scraps of old songs, i&c. 
it would be impossible to give the work a 
beginning, a middle, or an end, which the 
critics insist to be absolutely necessary in a 
work.^ In my last I told you my objections 
to the song you had selected for My Lodging 
is on the cold ground. On my visit the other 
day to my fair Chloris, (that is the poetic 
name of the lovely goddess of my inspira- 
tion,) she suggested an idea, which I, in my 
return from the visit, wrought into the fol- 
lowingr song. 

My 'Chloris, mark how green the groves, 
The primrose banks how fair; 

See Poems, p. 134. 

How do you like the simplicity and ten- 
derness of this pastoral ? 1 think it pretty 
well. 

I like your entering so candidly and so 
kindly into the story of Ma chere Amie. I 
assure you I was never more in earnest in 
my life, than in the account of that aftair 
which I sent you in my last. — Conjugal love 
is a passion which I deeply feel and highly 
venerate ; but, somehow, it does not make 
such a figure in poesy as that other species 
of the passion, 

" Where love is liberty, and Nature law." 



* It does not appear whether Burns completed 
these anecdotes, &c. Something of the kind 
(probably the rude draughts,) was found amongst 
his papers, and appears in Appendix No. II. 
Note B. 



LETTERS. 



199 



Musically speaking, the first is an instruumut 
of which the gamut is scanty and confined, 
but the tones inexpressibly sweet ; wlTilethe 
last has powers equal to all the intellectual 
modulations of tlie human soul. Still I am 
a very poet in my enthusiasm of the pas- 
sion. The welfare and happiness of the be- 
loved object is the first and inviolate s»nti- 
ment that pervades my soul ; and whatever 
pleasures I might wish for, or whatever 
might be the raptures they would give me, 
yet, if they interfere with that first principle, 
it is having these pleasures at a dishonest 
price; and justice forbids, and generosity 
disdains the purchase i * * * * 

Despairing of my own powers to give you 
variety enough in English songs, I have been 
turning ovei old collections, to pick out 
songs, of which the measure is somewhat si- 
milar to what 1 want ; and, with a little al- 
teration, so as to suit the rhythm of the air 
exactly, to give you them for your work. 
Where the songs have hitherto been but lit- 
tle noticed, nor have ever been set to music, 
I think the shift a fair one. A song, which 
under the same first verse, you will find in 
Ramsay's Tea-Table Miscellany, I have cut 
down for an English dress to your Daintie 
Davie, as follows : 

SONG. 

Altered from an old English one. 

It was the charming month of May, 
When all the flowers were fresh and gay. 
See Poems, p. 134. 

You may think meanly of this, but take a 
look at the bombast original, and you will be 
surprised that I have made so much of it. I 
have finished my song to Rothiemur chiefs 
Rant; and you have Clarke to consult as to 
the set of the air for singing. 

LASSIE Wl' THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS.* 
CHORUS. 

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 
Bonnie Lassie, artless lassie. 

See Poems, p. 113. 

This piece has at least the merit of being 
a regular pastoral : the vernal morn, the sum- 
mer noon, the autumnal evening, and the 
winter night, are regularly rounded. If you 
like it, well : if not, I will insert it in the Mu- 
seum. 

* In some of the MSS. the last stanza of this 
song runs thus : 

And should the howling wintry blast 
Disturb my lassie's midnight rest, 
I'll fauld thee to my faithfu' breast, 
And comfort thee my dearie O. 



I am out of temper that you should set so 
sweet, so tender an air, as Leil tak the wars, 
to ihe foolish old verses. You talk of the sil- 
liness of Saw ye my father .' by heavens ! the 
odds is gold to brass ! Besides, the old song, 
though now pretty well modernized into the 
Scottish language, is originally, and in the 
early editions, a bungling low imitation of 
the Scottish manner, by that genius Tom 
1 )'Urfey ; so has- no pretensions to be a Scot- 
tish production. There is a pretty English 
song by Sheridan, in the Duenna, to this air, 
which is out of sight superior to D'Urfey's. 
It begins, 

" When sable night each drooping plant re- 
storing." 

The air, if I understand the expression of it 
properly, is the very native language of sim- 
plicity, tenderness, and love. 1 have again 
gone over my song to the tune as follows.* 

Now for my English song to JVancy's to the 
greenwood, ^c. 

Farewell thou stream that winding flows, 
Around Eliza's dwelling ! 

See Poems, p. 113. 

There is an air, The Caledonian Hunt's 
Delight, to which I wrote a song that you 
will find in Johnson. 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon ; this 
air, I think, might find a place among your 
hundred, as Lear says of his knights. Do 
you know the history of the air .'' It is cu- 
rious enough. A good many years ago, Mr. 
James Miller, writer in your good town, a 
gentleman whom possibly you know, was in 
company with our friend Clarke ; and talking 
of Scottish music, Miller expressed an ardent 
ambition to be able to compose a Scots air. 
Mr. Clarke, partly by way of joke, told hira 
to keep to the black keys of the harpsichord, 
and preserve some kind of rhythm ; and he 
would infallibly compose a Scots air. Cer- 
tain It is, that, in a few days, Mr. Miller pro- 
duced the rudiments of an air, which Mr. 
Clarke, with some touches and corrections, 
fashioned into the tune in question. Ritson, 
you know, has the same story of the black 
keys; but this account which I have just 
given you, Mr. Clarke informed me of se- 
veral years ago. Now to show you how 
difficult it is to trace the origin of our airs, I 
have heard it repeatedly asserted that this 
was an Irish air , nay, I met with an Irish 
gentleman who affirmed he had heard it in 

* See the song in its first and best dress in p. 
212. Our bard remarks upon it, " I could easily 
throw this into an English mould ; but, to my 
taste, in the simple and the tender of the pasto- 
ral song, a sprinkling of the old Scottish has an 
inimitable effect." E. 



'JOO 



LETTERS. 



Ireland among the old women ; while, on 
the other hand, a Countess informed me, 
that the first person who introduced the air 
into this country, was a baronet's lady of her 
acquaintance, who took down the notes from 
an itinerant piper in the Isle of Man. How 
difficult then to ascertain tha truth respect- 
ing our poesy and music ! I, myself, have 
lately seen a couple of ballads sung- thmui^h 
the streets of Dumfries with my name at the 
head of them as the author, though ii was 
the first time I had ever seen them. 

I thank you for admitting Cralgichurn- 
wood; and 1 shall take care to furnish yon 
with a new chorus. In fact the chorus was 
not my work, but a part of some old verses to 
the air If I can catch myself in a more than 
ordinarily propitious moment, 1 shall write a 
new Cragieburn-wood altogether. My heart 
is much in the theme. 

I am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make the 
request ; 'tis dunnmg your generosity ; but 
in a moment, when I had forgotten whelher 
I was rich or poor, I promised Chloris a copy 
of your songs. It wrings my honest pride to 
write you this ; but an ungracious request is 
4oubly so by a tedious apology. To make 
you some amends, as soon as I have extract- 
ed the necessary information out of them, I 
will return you Ritson's volumes. 

The lady is not a little proud that she is to 
make so distinguished a figure in your collec- 
tion, and I am not a little proud that I have 
it in my power to please her so much. — 
Lucky it is for your patience that my paper 
is done, for when I am in a scribbling hu- 
mour I know not when to give over. 



one of the kind you have sent me is admira- 
ble, and will be a universal favourite. 

Your verses for Rothiemurchie are so 
sweetly pastoral, and your serenade to Chlo- 
ris, for Deil tak the wars, so passionately ten- 
der, that I have sung myself into raptures 
witli them Your song for My lodgintr is on 
the cold ground, is likewise a diamond of the 
first water ; and I am quite dazzled and de- 
lighted by it Some of your Chlorises I sup- 
pose have flaxen hair, from your partiality 
for this colour ; else we differ about it ; for I 
should scarcely conceive a woman to be a 
beauty, on reading that she had lint-white 
locks. 

Farewell thou stream that icinding flows, 
I think excellent, but it is much too serious 
to come after JVancy ; at least it would seem 
an incongruity to provide the same air with 
merry Scottish and melancholy English 
verses ! The more that the two sets of 
verses resemble each other in their general 
character, the better. Those you have ma- 
nufactured for Dainty Davie will answer 
charmingly. I am happy to find you have 
begun your anecdotes I I care not how long 
they be, for it is impossible that any thing 
from your pen can be tedious. Let me be- 
seech you not to use ceremony in telling me 
when you wish to present any of your friends 
with the songs : the next carrier will bring 
you three copies, and you are as welcome to 
twenty as to a pinch of snufF. 



No. LXIII. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 



12th Mvemhtr, 1794. 



My Good Sir, 



Since receiving your last, I have had 
another interview with Mr. Clarke, and a 
long consultation. He thinks the Caledo- 
nian Hunt is more Bacchanalian than amo- 
rous in its nature, and recom-mends it to you 
to match the air accordingly. Pray did it 
ever occur to you how peculiarly well the 
Scottish airs are adapted for verses in the 
form of a dialogue 1 The first part of the 
air is generally low, and suited for a man's 
voice, and the second part in many instances 
cannot be sung, at concert pitch, but by a fe- 
male voice. A sr.ng thus performed makes 
an agreeable variety, but few of ours are 
written in this form : I wish you would think 
of it in some of those that remain. The.only 



No. LXIV. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON, 

l^th JVovemher, 1794. 

You see, my dear Sir, what a punctual 
correspondent I am : though indeed you may 
thank yourself for the tedium of my letters, 
as you have so flattered me on my horse- 
manship with my favourite hobby, and praised 
the grace of his ambling so much, that I am 
scarcely ever off" his back. For instance, 
this morning, though a keen blowing frost, 
in my walk before breakfast, I finished my 
duet which you were pleased to praise so 
much. Whether I have uniformly succeed- 
ed, I will not say ; but here it is for you, 
though it is not an hour old. 



O Philly, happy be that day 
When roving through the gather'd hay. 
See PoemSf p. 108. 

Tell me honestly how you like it ; and 
point out whatever you think faulty. 



LETTERS. 



201 



I am much pleased with your idea of sing- 
ing our songs in alternate stanzas, and re- 
gret that you did not hint it to me sooner. 
In those that remain, I shall have it in my 
eye I remember your objections to the 
name Philly ; but it is the common abbrevia- 
tion of Fhillis. Sally, the only other name 
that suits, has to my ear a vulgarity about it, 
which unfits it for any thing except bur- 
lesque. The legion of Scottish poetasters 
of the day, whom your brother editor, Mr. 
Ritson, ranks with me, as my coevals, have 
always mistaken vulgarity for simplicity : 
whereas, simplicity is as much eloignee from 
vulgarity on the one hand, as from affected 
point and puerile conceit on the other. 

I agree with you as to the air, Cragieburn- 
wood, that a chorus would in some degree 
spoil the effect ; and shall certainly have 
none in my projected song to it. It is not 
however a case in point with Rothiemurchie : 
there, as in Roy's Wife of Mdivalloch, a cho- 
rus goes, to my taste, well enough. As to 
the chorus going first, that is the case with 
Roy^s Wife, as well as Rothiemurchie. In 
fact, in the first part of both tunes, the 
rhythm is so peculiar and irregular, and on 
that irregularity depends so much of their 
beauty, that we must e'en take them with 
all their wildness, and humour the verses ac- 
cordingly. Leaving out the starting note, 
in both times has, 1 think, an effect that no 
regularity can counterbalance the want of. 

Try 

O Roy's Wife of Aldivaloch. 

O Lassie with the lint-white locks. 

and compare wilhf 

Roy's Wife of Aldivaloch. 
Lassie with the lint-white locks. 

Does not the tameness of the prefixed sylla- 
ble strike you ? In the last case, with the 
true furor of genius, you strike at once into 
the wild originality of the air : whereas in 
the first insipid method, it is like the grating 
screw of the pins before the fiddle is brought 
into tune. This is my taste ; if I am wrong, 
I beg pardon of the cognoscenti. 

The Caledonian Hunt is so charming that 
it would make any subject in a song go down ; 
but pathos is certainly its native tongue. — 
Scottish Bacchanalians we want, though the 
few we have are excellent. For instance, 
Todlin Hame, is, for wit and humour, an un- 
paralleled composition ; and Andreio and his 
cutty gun, is the work of a master. By the 
way, are you not quite vexed to think that 
those men of genius, for such they certainly 
were, who composed our fine Scottish lyrics, 
should be unknown ? It has given me many 
a heart-ache. .^^/Jropos to Bacchanalian songs 



in Scottish; I composed one yesterday, for 
an air I like much — Lumps o' pudding. 

Contented wi' little, and canty wi' mair, 
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care. 

See Poems, p. 11 4. 

If you do not relish this air, I will send it 
to Johnson. 

Since yesterday's penmanship, I have 
framed a couple of English stanzas, by way 
of an English song to Roy's Wife. You will 
allow me that in this instance, my English 
corresponds in sentiment with the Scottish. 

CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS, MY KATY .'' 
CHORUS. 

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ?* 
See Poems, p. 135. 

Well ! I think this to be done in two or 
three turns across my room, and with two 



* To this address, in the character of a for- 
saken lover, a reply was found on the part of the 
lady, among the MSS. of our bard, evidently in 
a female hand-writing ; which is doubtless that 
referred to in page 213, No. XLII. JVote. The 
temptation to give it to the public is irresistible; 
and if, in so doing, offence should be given to the 
fair authoress, the beauty of her verses must 
plead our excuse. 

TMne— 'Roy's Wife.' 



Stay, my Willie — yet believe me, 

Stay, my Willie — yet believe me, 

For, ah ! thou know''st na every pan 

Wad wring my bosom shouldst thou leave me. 

Tell me that thou yet art true, 

And a' my wrongs shall be forgiven, 

And when this heart proves fause to thee. 
Yon sun shall cease its course in heaven. 
Stay my Willie, &c. 

But to think I was betray'd, 
That falsehood e'er our loves should sunder .' 

To take the flovv'ret to my breast, 
And find the guile fu' serpent under ! 
Stay my Willie, &c. 

Could I hope tbou'dst ne'er deceive, 
Celestial pleasures, might I choose 'em, 

I'd slight, nor seek in other spheres 

That heaven I'd find within thy bosom. 
Stay my Willie, &c. 

It may amuse the reader to be told, that on this 
occasion, the gentleman and the lady have ex- 
changed the dialects of their respective countries. 
The Scottish bard makes his address in pure 
English ; the reply on the part of the lady, in the 
Scottish dialect, is, if we mistake not, by a young 
and beautiful Englishwoman. 



202 



LETTERS. 



of three pinches of Irish blackguard, is not 
so far amiss. You see I am determined to 
have my quantum of applause from some- 
body. 

Tell my friend Allan (for I am sure that 
we only want the trifling circumstance of 
being known to one an-'ther, to be the b-^st 
friends on earth) that I much suspect he has. 
in his plates, mistaken the fioure of the stock 
and horn. I have, at last, gotten one ; but it 
is a very rude instrument. It is composed 
of three parts ; the stock, which is the hinder 
thigh-bone of a sheep, such as you see in a 
mutton ham; the horn, which is a common 
Highland cow's horn, cut off at the smaller 
end until the aperture be large enough to 
admit the stock lo be pushed up through the 
horn until it be held by the tliicker end of 
the thigh bone, and la.«tly, an oaten reed ex- 
actly cut and notched like that which you 
see every shepherd boy have, when the corn 
stems are green and full-grown. The reed 
is not IT, de fast in the bone, but is held by 
the lips, and plays loose in the smaller end 
of the stock; while the stock, with the horn 
hanging on its larger end, is held by the 
hands in playing. The stock has six or se- 
ven ventiges on the upper sides, and one 
back ventige, like the common flute. This 
of mine was made by a man from the braes 
of Athole, and is exactly what the shepherds 
were wont to use in that country. 

However, either it is not quite properly 
bored in the holes, or else we have not the 
art of blowing it rightly ; for we can make 
little of it. If Mr Allan chooses I will send 
him a sight of mine ; as I look on myself to 
be a kind of brother brush with him. " Pride 
in poets is nae sin ;" and I will say it, that I 
look on Mr. Allan and Mr. Burns to be the 
only genuine and real painters of Scottish 
costume in the world. 



No. LXV. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

^Qth November, 1794. 

I acknowledge, my dear Sir, you are not 
only the most punctual, but the most delect- 
able correspondent I ever met with. To at- 
tempt flattering you never entered into my 
head ; the truth is, I look back with surprise 
at ray impudence, in so frequently nibbling 
at lines and couplets of your incomparnble 
lyrics, for which, perhaps if you had served 
me right, you would have sent me to the de- 
vil. On the contrary, however, you have all 
along condescended to invite my criticism 
with so much courtesy, that it ceases to be 
wonderful, if I have sometimes given myself 



the airs of a reviewer. Your last budget de- 
mands unqualified praise : all the songs are 
charming, but the duet is a. chef d^ auvre. 
Lumps o' Pudding shall certainly make one 
of my family dishes ; you have cooked it so 
capitally, that it will please all palates. Do 
give us a few more of this cast when you find 
yourself in good spirits ; these convivial songs 
are more tvanted than those of the amorous 
kind, of which we have great choice. Be- 
sides, one does not often meet with a singer 
capable of ffiving the proper effect to the lat- 
ter, while the former are easily sung, and ac- 
ceptable to every body. I participate in your 
regret that the authors of some of our best 
songs are unknown ; it is provoking to every 
admirer of genius. 

I mean to have a picture painted from your 
beautiful ballad, The Soldier's Return^ to be 
engraved for one of my frontispieces. The 
most interesting point of time appears to me, 
when she first recognizes her ain dear Willy, 
" She gaz'd, she redden'd like a rose." The 
three lines immediately following are no 
doubt more impressive on the reader's feel- 
ings ; but were the painter to fix on these, 
then you'll observe the animation and anx- 
iety of her countenance is gone, and he could 
only represent her fainting in the soldier's 
arms. But I submit the matter to you, and 
beg your opinion. 

Allan desires me to thank you for your 
accurate description of the stock and horn, 
and for the very gratifying compliment you 
pay him in considering him worthy of stand- 
ing in a niche by the side of Burns in the 
Scottish Pantheon. He has seen the rude 
instrument you describe, so dt)es not want 
you to send it ; but wishes to know whether 
you believe it to have ever been generally 
used as a musical pipe by the Scottish shep- 
herds, and when, and in what part of the 
country chiefly. I doubt much if it was ca- 
pable of any thing but routing and roaring. 
A friend of mine says he remembers to have 
heard one in his younger days made of wood 
instead of your bone, and that the sound was 
abominable. 

Do not, I beseech you, return any books. 



No. LXVI. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 



December, 1794. 



My Dear Sir, 



It is, I assure you, the pride of my heart, 
to do any thing to forward, or add to the va- 
lue of your book ; and as I agree with you 
that the Jacobite song in the Museum, to 



LETTERS. 



203 



There'll never he peace till Jamie comes hame, 
would not so well consort with Peter Pin- 
dar's excellent love-song to that air, I have 
just framed for you the following : 

MT Nannie's awa. 

Now in her green mantis blithe nature ar- 
rays, 

And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the 
braes. 

See Poems, p. 114. 

How does this please you ? As to the 
point of time for the expression, in your pro- 
posed print for my Sodgelr's Return, it must 
certainly be at — " She gaz'd." The inte- 
resting dubiety and suspense taking posses- 
sion of her countenance, and the gushing 
fondness with a mixture of roguish playful- 
ness in his, strike me, as things of which a 
master will make a great deal. In great 
haste, but in great truth, yours. 



No. LXVII. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

January, 1795. 

[ fear for my songs ; however a few may 
please, yet originality is a coy feature in com- 
position, and in a multiplicity of efforts in the 
same style, disappears altogether. For these 
three thousand years, we poetic folks have 
been describing the spring, for instance ; and 
as the spring continues the same, there must 
soon be a sameness in the imagery, &c. of 
these said rhyming folks. 

A great critic, Aikin, on songs, says, that 
love and wine are the exclusive themes for 
song-writing. The following is on neither 
subject, and consequently is no song; but 
will be allowed, I think, to be two or three 
pretty good prose thoughts, inverted into 
rhyme. 

FOR a' that and a' THAT. 

Is there for honest poverty, 
That hangs his head and a' that ; 

See Poems, p. 142. ' 
I 
I do not give you the foregoing song for 
your book, but merely by way oftjive la ba- 
gatelle ; for the piece is not really poetry. 
How will the following do for Cragie-burn- 
wood ?* 

* Cragie-burn-wood is situated on the banks of 
the river Moffat, and about three miles distant 
from the village of that name, celebrated for its 
fhedicinal waters. — The woods of Cragie-burn 

49 



Sweet fa's the eve on Cragie-burn, 
And blithe awakes the morrow ; 

See Poems, p. 114. 

Farewell ! God bless you. 



No. LXVJII. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, dOth January, 1795. 

Mv Dear Sir, 

I thank you heartily for J^annie's awa, as 
well as for Craigie-burn, which I think a very 
comely pair. Your observation on the diffi- 
culty of original writing in a number of ef- 
forts, in the same style, strikes me very for- 
cibly : and it has again and again excited my 
wonder to find you continually surmounting 
this difficulty, in the many delightful songs 
you have sent me. Your vive La bagatelle 
song. For a' that, shall, undoubtedly, be in- 
cluded in my list. 



No. LXIX. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

February, 1795. 

Here is another trial at your favourite air 

O Lassie, art thou sleeping yet ? 
Or art thou wakin, I would wit.** 

See Poems, p. 114. 



HER ANSWER. 



O tell na me o' wind and rain, 
Upbraid me na wi' cauld disdain 

I do not know whether it will do. 



No. LXX. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Ecclcfechan, 7th February, 1795. 
Mv Dear Thomson, 

You cannot have any idea of the predi- 
cament in which I write to you. In the 

and of Dumcrief, were at one time favourite 
haunts of our poet. It was there he met the 
" Lassie wi' the lint-while locks/' and that he 
cnnceived several of his beautiful lyrics. K. 



204 



LETTEUsJ. 



course of my duty as Supervisor, in which 
capacity 1 have acted of late,) I came yester- 
night to this unfortunate, wicked, little vil- 
lage. I have gone forward, but snows often 
feet deep have impeded my progress ; I have 
tried to " gae back the gait I cam again," but 
the same obstacle has shut me up within in- 
superable bars. To add to my misfortune, 
since dinner, a scraper has been torturing 
catgut, in sounds that would have insulted 
the dying agonies of a sow under the hands 
of a butcher, and thinks himself, on that very 
account, exceeding good company. In fact, 
I have been in a dilemma, either to get drunk, 
to forget these miseries, or to hang myself 
to get rid of them ; like a prudent man (a 
character congenial to my every thought, 
word, and deed,) I of two evils, have chosen 
the least, and am very drunk, at your ser- 
vice !* 

I wrote to you yesterday from Dumfries. 
I had not time then to tell you all I wanted 
to say ; and heaven knows, at present I have 
not capacity. 

Do you know an air — I am sure you must 
know it, We'll gang nae mair to yon town ? 
I think, in slowish time, it would make an 
excellent song. I am highly delighted with 
it ; and if you should think it worthy of your 
attention, I have a fair dame in my eye to 
whom I Would COnsecrato it. 

As I am jast going to bed, I wish you a 
good night. 



No. LXXII. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Mayt 1795. 

ADDRESS TO THE WOODLARK. 

O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay, 
Nor quit for me the trembling spray. 

See Poems, p. 115. 

Let me know your very first leisure, how 
you like this song. 

ON CHLORIS BEING ILL. 
CHOKUS. 

Long, long the nighty 

Heavy comes the morrotc. 

See Poems f p. 135. 

How do you like the foregoing ? The Irish 
air, Humours of Glen, is a great favourite of 
mine ; and as, except the silly stuff in the 
Poor Soldier, there are not any decent verses 
for it, I have written for it as follows : 

SONG. 

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign 
lands reckon, 
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the 
perfume ; 

See Poems, p. 115. 



No. LXXI. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 
25th February, 1795. 

I have to thank you, my dear Sir, for 
two epistles, one containing Let me in this 
ae night; and the other from Ecclefechan, 
proving, that drunk or sober, your " mind is 
never muddy." You have displayed great 
address in the above song. Her answer is 
excellent, and at the same time, takes away 
the indelicacy that otherwise would have at- 
tached to his entreaties. I like the song as 
;t now stands, very much. 

I had hopes you would be arrested some 
days at Ecclefechan, and be obliged to be- 
guile the tedious forenoons by song-mak- 
ing. It will give me pleasure to receive the 
verses you intend for wat ye who's in yon 
totonf 
■ ' ' ^ I II I II »»»— ^. i»»— » 

* The bard must have been tipsy indeed, to 
abuse sweet Ecclofwhan at tbis rate. E. 



SONG. 



'Twas na her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin ; 
Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing ; 

See Poems, p. 115. 
Let me hear from you. 



No. LXXIII. j 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

You must not think, my good Sir, that I 
have any intention to enhance the value of 
my gift| when I say, in justice to the inge- 
nious and worthy artist, that the design and 
execution of the Cotter's Saturdo> Night is, 
in my opinion, one of the happiest produc- 
tions of Allan's pencil. I shall be griev-usly 
disappointed if you are not quite pleased 
with it. 

The figure intended for your portrait, I 
think strikingly like you, as far as I can re- 
member your phiz. This should make the 



LETTERS. 



20fe 



piece interesting to your family every way. 
— Tell me whether Mrs. Burns finds you 
out among the figures. 

I cannot express the feeling of admiration 
with which I have read your pathetic Ad- 
dress to the Wood-Lark, your elegant Pane- 
gyric on Caledonia, and your affecting verses 
on Chloris's illness. Every repeated perusal 
of these gives new delight. The other song 
to " Laddie, lie near me," though not equal 
to these, is very pleasing. 



No. LXXIV. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

How cruel are the parents, 
Who riches only prize ; 

See Poems J "p. 142. 



SONG. 



Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion, 
Round the wealthy, titled bride ; 

iScc Poems, p. 115. 

Well ! this is not amiss. You see how I 
answer your orders ; your tailor could not 
be more punctual. I am just now in a high 
fit for poetizing, provided that the straight 
jacket of criticism don't cure me. If you 
can in a post or two administer a little of the 
intoxicating portion of your applause, it will 
raise your humble servant's frenzy to any 
height you want. I am at this moment 
" holding high converse" with the Muses, 
and have not a word to throw away on such 
a prosaic dog as you are. 



No. LXXV. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

May,V7^b. 

Ten thousand thanks for your elegant 
present : though I am ashamed of the value 
of it being bestowed on a man who has not 
by any means merited such an instance of 
kindness. I have shown it to two or three 
judges of the first abilities here, and they all 
agree with me in classing it as a first-rate 
production. My phiz is sae ken speckle, that 
the very joiner's apprentice whom Mrs. 
Burns employed to break up the parcel (I 
was out of town that day,) knew it at once. 
— My most grateful compliments to Allan, 
who has honoured my rustic muse so much 



with his masterly pencil. One strange coin- 
cidence is, that the Utile one who, is making 
the felonious attempt on the cat's tail, is the 
most striking likeness of an ill-decdie, d — n'rf, 
wee, rumble-gairie, urchin of mine, whom, 
from that propensity to witty wickedness, 
and manfu' mischief, which even at two days 
auld, I foresaw would form the striking fea- 
tures of his disposition, I named Willie Ni- 
col, after a certain friend of mine, who is one 
of the masters of a grammar-school in a city 
which shall be nameless. 

Give the enclosed epigram to ray mucU- 
valued friend Cunningham, and tell him that 
on Wednesday I go to visit a friend of his, 
to whom his friendly partiality in speaking 
of me, in a manner introduced me — I mean 
a well-known military and literary character, 
Colonel Dirom. 

You do not tell me how you liked my two 
last songs. Are they condemned ? 



No. LXXVL 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

12th May, 1795. 

It gives me great pleasure to find that you 
are so well satisfied with Mr. Allan's produc- 
tion. The chance resemblance of your little 
fellow, whose promising disposition appeared 
so very early, and suggested whom he should 
be named after, is curious enough. I am ac- 
quainted with that person, who is a prodigy 
of learning and genius, and a pleasant fellow, 
though no saint. 

You really make me blush when you tell 
me you have not merited the drawing from 
me. I do not think I can ever repay you, or 
sufficiently esteem and respect you for th© 
liberal and kind manner in which yon have 
entered into the spirit of my undertaking, 
which could not have been perfected witn- 
out you. So 1 beg you would not make a, 
fool of me again, by speaking of obligation. 

I like your two last songs very much, and 
am happy to find you are in such a high fit 
of poetizing. Long may it last ! Clarke has 
made a fine pathetic air to Mallet's superla- 
tive ballad of William and Margaret, and is 
to give it me to be enrolled among the elect. 



No. LXXVII. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON, 

In Whistle, and Fll come to you, my lad, 
the iteration of that line is tiresome to mv 



206 



LETTERS. 



ear. Here goes what I think is an improve- 
ment. 

O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad, 

whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad ; 
Tho' father and mother and a' should gae 

mad, 
Thy Jeany will venture wi' ye, roy lad. 

In fact, a fair dame at whose shrine, I, the 
Priest of the Nine, offer up the incense of 
Parnassus ; a dame, whom the Graces have 
attired in witchcraft, and whom the loves 
have armed with lightning, a Fair One, her- 
self the heroine of the song, insists on the 
amendment: and dispute her commands if 
you dare! 

SONG. 

this is no my ain lassie, 
Fair tho' the lassie be ; 

Sec Poems, p. 116. 

Do you know that you have roused the 
torpidity of Clarke at last ? He has request- 
ed me to write three or four songs for him, 
which he is to set to music himself The 
enclosed sheet contains two songs for him, 
which please to present to my valued friend 
Cunningham. 

1 enclose the sheet open, both for your in- 
spection, and that you may copy the song, 
O bonnie was yon rosy brier. I do not know 
whether I am right ; but that song pleases 
me, and as it is extremely probable that 
Clarke's newly roused celestial spark will 
soon be smothered in the fogs of indolence, 
if you like the song, it may go as Scottish 
verses, to the air of / wish my love was in a 
mire; and poor Erskine's English lines may 
follow. 

I enclose you, a For a' that and a' that, 
which was never in print ; it is a much su- 
perior song to mine. I have been told that 
it was composed by a lady. 

Now spring has clad the grove in green. 
And atrew^'d the lea wi' flowers : 

See Poems p. 143. 

O bonnie was yon rosy brier 
That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man ; 

See Poems, p. 116. 

Written on the blank leaf of a copy of the 
last edition of my poems, presented to the 
lady, whom, in so many fictitious reveries of 
passion, but with the most ardent sentiments 
tof real friendship, I have so often sung un- 
4ct the name of Chloris. 



'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair 
friend, 
Nor thou the gift refuse. 

See Poems, p. 85. 



Une bagatelle de V ainitie. 



COILA. 



No. LXXVIII. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 3d August, 1795. 

My Dear Sir, 

This will be delivered to you by a Dr. 
Brianton, who has read your works, and 
pants for the honour of your acquaintance. 
I do not know the gentleman, but his friend, 
who applied to me for this introduction, 
being an excellent young man, I have no 
doubt he is worthy of all acceptation. 

My eyes have just been gladdened, and 
my mind feasted, with your last packet — 
full of pleasant things indeed. What an 
imagination is yours ! It is superfluous to 
tell you that I am delighted with all the three 
songs, as well as with your elegant and ten- 
der verses to Chloris. 

I am sorry you should be induced to alter 
O whistle, and Fll come to ye, my lad, to the 
prosaic line, Thy Jeany toill venture wV ye, 
my lad. I must be permitted to say, that I 
do not think the latter either reads or sings 
so well as the former. I wish, therefore, you 
would, in my name, petition the charming 
Jeany whoever she be, to let the line remain 
unaltered.* 

I should be happy to see Mr. Clarke pro- 
duce a few airs to be joined to your verses. 
Every body regrets his writing so very little, 
as every body acknowledges his ability to 
write well. Pray was the resolution formed 
coolly before dinner, or was it a midnight 
vow, made over a bowl of punch with the 
bard .'' 



I shall not fail to give 
what you have sent him. 



Mr. Cunningham 



P. S. The lady's For a' that and a' that, is 
sensible enough, but no more to be compared 
to yours than I to Hercules. 

* The editor, who has heard the heroine of this 
song sing it herself in the very spirit of arch sim- 
plicity that it requires, thinks Mr. Thomson's 
petition unreasonable. If we mistake not, this 
is the same lady who produced the lines to the 
tune of Roy^s Wife. 



LETTERS. 



207 



No. LXXIX. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, 
Far, far from thee, I wander here ; 

See Poems, p. 116. 

How do you like the foregoing? I have 
written it within this hour : so much for the 
speed of my Pegasus, but what say you to his 
bottom ? 



No. LXXX. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang 
glen, 
And sair wi' his love did he deave me ;* 
See Poems, p. 116. 



Why, why tell thy lover, 

Bliss he never must enjoy ? 

-Sec Poems, p 143. 

Such is the peculiarity of the rhythm of 
this air, that I find it impossible to make ano- 
ther stanza to suit it 

I am at present quite occupied with the 
charmmg sensations of the tooth-ache, so 
have not a word to spare. 



No. LXXXL 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 



2d June, 1795. 



My Dear Sir, 



Your English verses to Let me in this ae 
night, are tender and beautiful; and your 
ballad to the " Lothian Lassie,'^ is a master- 

* In the original MS. the third line of the fourth 
verse runs, " He up the Gateslack to my black 
cousin Bess." Mr. Thomson objected to this 
word, as well as to the word Dalgarnock, in the 
next verse. Mr. Burns replies as follows : 

" Gateslack is the name of a particular place, 
a kind of passage up among the Lawther hills, 
on the confines of this county. Dalgarnock is 
also the name of a romantic spot near the Nith, 
wherearestilla ruined church and burial-ground. 
However, let the first run, Me up the lang loan,'^ 
Si,c. 

It is always a pity to throw out any thmg that 
gives locality to our poet's verses. E. 



piece for its humour and naivete. The frag- 
ment for the Caledonian Hunt is quite suited 
to the original measure of the air, and, as it 
plagues you so, the fragment must content 
it. I would rather, as I said before, have 
had Bacchanalian words, had it so pleased 
ihe poet; but, nevertheless, for what we 
have received, Lord make us thankful ! 



No. LXXXH. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

5th Feb. 1796. 

O Robby Burns, are ye sleeping yet ? 
Or are ye wavking, I would wit ? 

The pause you have made, my dear Sir, 
is awful ! Am I never to hear from you 
again ? I know and I lament how much you 
have been afflicted of late, but I trust that re- 
turning health and spirits will now enable 
you to resume the pen, and delight us with 
your musings. I have still about a dozen 
Scotch and Irish airs that I wish " married 
to immortal verse." We have several true 
born Irishmen on the Scottish list ; but they 
are now naturalized, and reckoned our own 
good subjects. Indeed we have none better. 
I believe I before told you that I have been 
much urged by some friends to publish a col- 
lection of all our favourite airs and songs in 
octavo, embellished with a number of etch- 
ings by our ingenious friend Allan ; — what 
is your opinion of this ^ 



No. LXXXIII. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

February, 1796. 

Many thanks, my dear Sir, for your 

handsome elegant present to Mrs. B , 

and for my remaining vol. of P. Pindar. — 
Peter is a delightful fellow, and a first fa- 
vourite of mine. I am much pleased with 
your idea of publishing a collection of our 
songs in octavo, with etchings ; I am ex- 
tremely willing to lend every assistance in 
my power. The Irish airs I shall cheerfully 
undertake the task of finding verses for. 

I have already, you know, equipped three 
with words, and the other day I strung up a 
kind of rhapsody to another Hibernian mC' 
lody, which I admire much. 

HEY FOR A LASS Wl' A TOCHER. 

Awa wi' your witchcrafl o' beauty's alarms, 
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your 
arms ; 

See Poems, p. 116. 



208 



LETTERS. 



If this will do, you have now four of my 
Irish engagement. In my by past songs I 
dislike one thing : the name of Chloris— -I 
meant it as the fictitious name of a certain 
lady : but, on second thoughts, it is a high 
incongruity to have a Greek appellation to a 
Scottish pastoral ballad. — Of this, and some 
things else, in my next : I have more amend- 
ments to propose. — What you once mention- 
ed of " flaxen locks" is just ; they cannot 
enter into an elegant description of beauty. 
Of this also again— God bless you \'^. 



No. LXXXIV. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Your Hey for a lass wV a tocher, is a 
most excellent song, and with you the sub- 
ject is something new indeed. It is the fir«t 
time I have seen you debasing the god of 
soft desire, into an amateur of acres and gui- 
neas — 

I am happy to find you approve of my pro- 
posed octavo edition. Allan has designed 
and etched about twenty plates, and I am to 
have my choice of them for that work. In- 
dependently of the Hogarthian humour with 
which they abound, they exhibit the charac- 
ter and costume of the Scottish peasantry 
with inimitable feUcity. In this respect, he 
himself says they will far exceed the aqua- 
tinta plates he did for the Gentle Shepherd, 
because in the etching he sees clearly what 
he is doing, but not so with the aquatinta, 
which he could not manage to his mind. 

The Dutch boors of Ostade are scarcely 
more characteristic and natural than the 
Scottish figures in those etchings. 



No. LXXXV. 
MR. BURNS TO MR, THOMSON. 

^pril, 1796. 

Alas, my dear Thomson, I fear it will be 
some time ere I tune my lyre again I " By 
Babel streams I have sat and wept," almost 
ever since I wrote you last : I have only 
known existence by the pressure of the hea- 
vy hand of sickness, and have counted time 
by the repercussions of pain ! Rheumatism, 
cold and fever, have formed to me a terrible 
combination. I close my eyes in misery, and 

* Our Poet never explained what name he 
would have substituted for Chloris. 

JVoie by Mr. Thomson. 



open them without hope, I look on the ver- 
nal day, and say, with poor Fergusson — 

" Say, wherefore has an all-indulgent Heaven 
Light to the comfortless and wretched given?" 

This will be delivered to you by a Mrs 
Hyslop, landlady of the Globe Tavern here, 
which for these many years has been my 
howff, and where our friend Clarke and I 
have had many a merry squeeze. I am high- 
ly delighted with Mr. Allan's etchings. — 
IVoo'd and married an' a', is admirable. The 
grouping is beyond all praise. The expres- 
sion of the figures conformable to the story 
in the ballad, is absolutely faultless perfec- 
tion. I next admire, TMrn-im-5»tAe. What ,1 
I like least is, Jenny said to Jockey. Besides 1 1 
the female being in her appearance * * ' ' 
* * * * if you take her stooping into 
the account, she is at least two inches taller 
than her lover. Poor Cleghorn : 1 sincerely 
sympathize with him ! Happy I am to think 
that Jie has yet a well grounded hope of health 
and enjoyment in this world. As for me— 
but that is a * * * * * subject! 



No. LXXXVI. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 



11 



AthMay.ll^G. 

I need not tell you, my good Sir, what 
concern the receipt of your last gave me, and 
how much 1 sympathize in your sufferings. 
But do not, I beseech you, give yourself up 
to despondency, nor speak the language of 
despair. The vigour of your constitution, I 
trust, will soon set you on your feet again ; 
and then it is to be hoped you will see the 
wisdom and the necessity of taking care of a 
life so valuable to your family, to your friends, 
and to the world. 

Trusting that your next will bring agreea- 
ble accounts of your convalescence, and re- 
turning good spirits, I remain, with sincere 
regard, yours. 

P. S. Mrs. Hyslop, I doubt not, delivered 
the gold seal to you in good condition. 



^1 



No. LXXXVII. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Mv Dear Sir, 

I once mentioned to you an air which I 
have long admired — Here's a health to them 
that's awa, hinnie, but I forget if you took 
anv notice of it. I have just been trying to 



LETTERS, 



209 



suit it with verses ; and I beg leave to re- 
commend the air to your attention once 
more. I have only begun it. 



CHORUS. 



Here's a health to ane I lo'c dear, 
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ;* 

See Poems, J). 117. 



No. LXXXVIII. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

This will be delivered by a Mr. Lewars, 
a young fellow of uncommon merit. As he 
will be a day or two in town, you will have 
leisure if you choose to write me by him; 
and if you have a spare half hour to spend 
with him, I shal! place your kindness to my 
account. 1 have no copies of the songs I 
have sent you, and 1 have taken a fancy to 
review them all, and possibly may mend 
some of them : so, when you have complete 
leisure, I will thank you for either the origi- 
nals or copies, t I had rather be the author 
of five well-written songs, than often other- 
wise. I have great hopes that the genial in- 
fluence of the approaching summer will set 
me to rights, but as yet I cannot boast of re- 
turning health. I have now reason to be- 
lieve that my complaint is a flying gout : — a 
sad business. 

Do let me know how Cleghorn is, and re- 
member me to him. 

This should have been delivered to you a 
month ago. I ani still very poorly, but should 
like much to hear from you. 



No. LXXXIX. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Brow, on the Solway Frith, 12th July, 1796. 

After all my boasted independence, cursed 
necessity compels me to implore you for five 
pounds. A cruel * * * * of a haber- 
dasher, to whom I owe an account, taking it 
into his head that 1 am dying, has com- 



* In the letter to Mr Thomson, the three first 
stanzas only are given, and Mr. Thomson sup- 
posed our poet had never gone fartr.er Among 
his MSS. was, however, found the fourth stanza, 
which completes this exquisite song, the lasi 
finished offspring of his muse. E. 

f It is needless to say that this revisal Burns 
did not live to perform. E. 



menced a process, and will infallibly put me 
into jail. Do, for God's sake, send me that 
sum, and that by return of post. Forgive 
me this earnestness, but the horrors of a jail 
have made me half distracted. I do not ask 
all this gratuitously; for, upon returning 
health, I hereby promise and engage to fur- 
nish you with five pounds worth of the neat- 
est song genius you have seen. I tried my 
hand on Rothiemurchie this mornmg. The 
measure is so difficult, that it is impossible 
to infuse much genius into the lines ; they 
are on the other side. Forgive, forgive me ! 

SONG. 

CHORUS. 

Fairest maid on Devon hanks, 
Ckrystal Devon, winding Devon* 

See Poems, p. 117. 



No. XC. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR, BURNS. 

Uth July, 1796. 
Mv Dear Sir, 

Ever since I received your melancholy 
letter by Mrs. Hyslop, I have been ruminat- 
ing in what manner I could endeavour to al- 
leviate your sufferings. Again and again I 
thought of a pecuniary offer, but the recol- 
lection of one of your letters on the subject, 
and the fear of offending your independent 
spirit, checked my resolution. I thank you 
heartily therefore for the frankness of your 
letter of the 12th, and with great pleasure 
enclose a draft for the very sum 1 proposed 
sending. Would I were Chancellor of the 
Exchequer but for one day for your sake ! 

Pray, my good Sir, is it not possible for 
you to muster a volume of poetry i" If too 
much trouble to you in the present state of 
your health, some hterary friend might be 
found here, who would select and arrange 
from your manuscripts, and take upon him 
the task of editor. In the mean time it could 
be advertised to be published by subscription. 
Do not shun this mode of obtaining the value 
of your labour : remember Pope published 



* This song, and the letter enclosing it, are 
written in a character that marks the very feeble 
state of Burns's bodily strength. Mr. Syme is of 
opinion that he could not have been in any dan- 
ger of a jail at Dumfries, where certainly he had 
many firm friends ; nor under any such necessity 
of imploring aid from Edinburgh. But about 
this time his reason began to be at times unset-- 
tied, and the horrors of a jail perpetually haunted 
his imagination. He died on the 21st of this 
month, E, 



210 



LETTERS. 



the Iliad by subscription. Think of this, m}' 
dear Burns, and do not reckon me intrusive 
with my advice. You are too well convinced 
of the respect and friendship I bear you, to 
impute any thin^ I say to au unworthy mo- 
tive. Yours faithfully. 

The verses to Rothirmurchie will answer 
finely. I am happy to see you can still tune 
your lyre. 



EXTRACT OF A LETTER. 

FROM GILBERT BURNS TO DR. CURRIE. 

It may gratify curiosity to know some par- 
ticulais of the history of the preceding 
Poems* on which the celebrity of our Bard 
has been hitherto founded ; and with this 
view the following extract is made from a 
Utter of Gilbert Burns, the brother of our 
poet, and his friend and confidant froin his 
earliest years. 



Mossgiel, 2d April^ 1798. 

Djear Sir, 

Your letter of the 14th of March I re- 
ceived in due course, but from the hurry of 
the season have been hitherto hindered from 
answering it. I will now try to give you 
what satisfaction I can, in regard to the par- 
ticulars you mention. I cannot pretend to 
be very accurate in respect to the dates of 
the poems, but none of them, except Winter, 
a Dirge, (which was a juvenile production,) 
The Death and Dying Words of Poor Mail- 
lie, and some of the songs, were composed be- 
fore the year 1784. The circumstances of 
the poor sheep were pretty much as he had 
described them. He had, partly by way of 
frolic, bought a ewe and two lambs from a 
neioflibour, and she was tethered in a field ad- 
joining the house at Lochlie. He and I 
were going out with our teams, and our two 
younger brothers to drive for us, at raid-day ; 
when Hugh Wilson, a curious-looking awk- 
ward boy, clad in plaidmg, came to us with 
much anxiety in his face, with the informa- 
tion that the ewe had entangled herself in 
the tether, and was lying in the ditch. Ro- 
bert was much tickled with Huoc's appear- 
ance and postures on the occasion. Poor 
Maillie was set to rights, and when we re- 
turned from the plough in the evening, he 
repeated to me her Death and Dying Words, 
pretty much in the way they now stand. 

Among the earliest of his poems was the 
Epistle to Davie. Robert often composed 

* This refers to the pieces inserted before page 
81 of the Poems. 



without any regular plan When any thing 
made a strong impression on his mind, so as 
to rouse it to poetic exertion, he would give 
way to the impulse, and embody the thought 
in rhyme, if he hit on two or three stanzas 
to please him, he would then think of proper 
introductory, connecting, and concluding 
stanzas ; hence the middle of a peem was 
often first produced. It was, I think, in sum- 
mer 1784, when in the interval of harder la- 
bour, he and I were weeding in the garden, 
(kail-yard,) that he repeated to me the prin- 
ciple part of this epistle. I believe the first 
idea of Robert becoming an author was start- 
ed on this occasion. I was much pleased 
with the epistle, and said to hira I was of 
opinion it would bear being printed, and that 
it would be well received by people of taste; 
that I thought it at least equal if not supe- 
rior to many of Allan Ramsay's epistles ; and 
that the merit of these, and much other 
Scotch poetry, seemed to consist principally 
in the knack of the expression, but here, 
there was a train of interesting sentiment, 
and the Scoticism of the language scarcely 
seemed affected, but appeared to be the na- 
tural language of the poet; that, besides, 
there was certainly some novelty in a poet 
pointing out the consolations that were in 
store for him when he should go a begging. 
Robert seemed very well pleased with my 
criticism, and we talked of sending it to some 
magazine, but as this plan afforded no oppor- 
tunity of knowing how it would take, the 
idea was dropped. 

It was, I think, in the winter following, as 
we were going together with carts for coal 
to the family fire (and I could yet point out 
the particular spot,) that the author first re- 
peated to me the Address to the Deil. The 
curious idea of such an address was suggest- 
ed to him by running over in his mind the 
many ludicrous accounts and representations 
we have, from various quarters, of this au- 
gust personage. Death and Doctor Horn- 
book, though not published in the Kilmar- 
nock edition, was produced early in the year 
1785. The schoolmaster of Tarbolton pa- 
rish, to eke up the scanty subsistence allow- 
ed to that useful class of men, had set up a 
shop of grocery goods Having accidentally 
fallen in with some medical books, and be- 
come most hobby horsically attached to the 
study of medicine, he had added the sale of 
a few medicines to his little trade. He had 
got a shop-bill printed, at the bottom of 
which, overlooking his own incapacity, he 
had advertised, that Advice would be given 
in " common disorders at the shop gratis/' 
Robert was at a mason meeting in Tarbol- 
ton, when the Dominie unfortunately made 
too ostentatious adisplay of his medical skill. 
As he parted in the evening from this mix- 
ture of pedantry and physic, at the place 
where he describes his meeting with Death, 
one of those floating ideas of apparition hr 



LETTERS. 



211 



mentions in his letter to Dr. Moore, crossed 
his mind : this set him to work for the rest 
of the way home. These circumstances he 
related when he repeated the verses to me 
next afternoon, as I was holding the plough, 
and he was letting the water off the field be- 
side me. The Epistle to John Lapraik was 
produced exactly on the occasion described 
by the author. He says in that poem, On 
fasten- e'en, ice had a rockin. I believe he 
has omitted the work rocking in the glossary. 
It is a term derived from those primitive 
times, when the countrywomen employed 
their spare hours in spinning on the rock, or 
distaff. This simple implement is a very 
portable one, and well fitted to the social in- 
clination of meeting in a neighbour's house ; 
hence the phrase o^ going a rocking, ovioitk 
the rock. As the connection the phrase had 
with the implement was forgotten, when the 
rock gave place to the spinning-wheel, the 
phrase came to be used by both sexes on so- 
cial occasions, and men talked of going with 
their rocks as well as women. 

It was at one of these rockings at our 
house, when we had twelve or fifteen young 
people with their rocks, that Lapraik's song, 
beginning — " When I upon thy bosom lean," 
was sung, and we were informed who was 
the author. Upon this Robert wrote his first 
epistle to Lapraik ; and his second in reply 
to his answer. The verses to the Mouse and 
Mountain Daisy were composed on the occa- 
sions mentioned, and while the author was 
holding the plough ; I could point out the 
particular spot where each was composed. 
Holding the plough was a favourite situation 
with Robert for poetic composition, and some 
of his best verses were produced while he 
was at that exercise. Several of the poems 
were produced for the purpose of bringing 
forward some favourite sentiment of the au- 
thor. He used to remark to me, that he 
could not well conceive a more mortifj-ing 
picture of human life, than a man seeking 
work. In casting about in his mind how this 
sentiment might be brought forward, the 
elegy Man was made to mourn, was com- 
posed. Robert had frequently remarked to 
me that he thought there was sometliing pe- 
culiarly venerable in the phrase, " Let us 
worship God," used by a decent, sober head 
of a family, introducing family worship. To 
this sentiment of the author the world is in- 
debted for the Cotter's Saturday JS'ight. The 
hint of the plan, and the title of the poem, 
were taken from Fergusson's Farmer's In- 
gle. When Robert had not some pleasure 
in view, in which I was not thought fit to 
participate, we used frequently to walk toge- 
ther, when the weather was favourable, on 
the Sunday afternoons (those precious 
breathing times to the labouring part of the 
community,) and enjoyed such Sundays as 
would make one regret to see their numbers 
abridged. It was in one of these walks, that 

50 



I first had the pleasure of hearing the author 
repeat the Cotter's Saturday Night. I do 
not recollect to have heard or read any thing 
by which I was more highly electrified. The 
fifth and sixth stanzas, and the eighteenth, 
thrilled with peculiar ectasy through my 
soul. I mention this to you, that you may 
see what hit the taste of unlettered criti- 
cism. I should be glad to know if the en- 
lightened mind and refined taste of Mr. Ros- 
coe, who has borne such honourable testimo- 
ny to this poem, agrees with me in the se-, 
lection. Fergusson, in his IJalioio Fair of 
Edinburgh, 1 believe, likewise furnished a 
hint of the title and plan of the Holy I\iir. 
The farcical scene the poet there describes 
was often a favourite field of his observation, 
and the most of the incidents he mentions* 
had actually passed before his eyes. It i^ 
scarcely necessary to mention that the La^ 
mcnt was composed on that unfortunate pas- 
sage in his matrimonial history, which I 
have mentioned in my letter to Mrs. Dunlop, 
after the first distraction of his feelings had a 
little subsided. The Tale of Twa ifogs was 
composed after the resolution of publishing 
was nearly taken. Robert had had a dog, 
which he called Luatk, that was a great fa- 
vourite. The dog had been killed by the. 
wanton cruelty of some person the night be- 
fore my father's death. Robert said to me, 
that he should like to confer such immor- 
tality as he could bestow upon his old friend 
Luath, and that he had a great mind to intro- 
duce something into the book, under the title 
of StaJizas to the Memory of a Quadrujted 
friend ; but this plan was given up for the 
Tale as it now stands. Ccesar was merely 
the creature of the poet's imagination, cre- 
ated for the purpose ofholding chat with his 
favourite Luath. The first time Robert 
heard the spinnet played upon, was at the 
house of Dr. Lawrie, then minister of the 
parish of Loudon, now in Glasgow, having 
given up the parish in favour of his son. Dr. 
Lawrie has several daughters ; one of them 
played ; the father and mother led down the 
dance ; the rest of the sisters, the brother, 
the poet, and the other guests, mixed in it. 
It was a delightful family scene for our poet, 
then lately introduced to the \vorld. His 
mind was roused to a poetic enthusiasm, and 
the stanzas p. 56, of the Poems, were left in 
the room where he slept. It was to Dr. 
Lawrie that Dr. Blacklock's letter was ad- 
dressed, which my brother, in his letter to 
Dr. Moore, mentions as the reason of his 
going to Edinburgh. 

When my father /ewcd his little property 
near AUoway-Kirk, the wall of the church- 
yard had gone to ruin, and cattle had free 
liberty of pasturing in it. My father, with 
two or three other neighbours, joined in an 
application to the town council of Ayr, who 
were superiors of the adjoining land, for lir 
bertv to rebuild it. and raised by subsnin- 



212 



LETTERS. 



tidn a sum for enclosing this ancient ceme- 
tery with a wall ; hence he came to consider 
it as his burial-place, and we learned that re- 
verence for it people generally have for the " 
burial-place of their ancestors. My brother 
was living in EUisland, when Captain Grose, 
on his peregrinations through Scotland, staid 
some time at Carsehouse, in the neighbour- 
hood, with Captain Robert Riddel, of Glen- 
Riddel, a particular friend of my brother's. 
The Antiquarian and the poet were " Unco 
pack and thick thegither." Robert request- 
ed of Captain Grose, when he should come 
to Ayrshire, that he would make a drawing 
of Alloway-Kirk, as it was the burial-place 
of his father, and where he himself had a sort 
of claim to lay down his bones when they 
should be no longer serviceable to him ; and 
added by way of encouragement, that it was 
tlie scene of many a good story of witches 
^nd apparitions, of which he knew the Cap- 
tain was very fond. The Captain agreed to 
the request, provided the poet would furnish 
a witch-story, to be printed along with it. — 
Tam o' Shanter was produced on this occa- 
sion, and was first published in Grose's Anti- 
qidties of Scotland. 

The poem is founded on a traditional story. 
The leading circumstances of a man riding 
liome very late from Ayr, in a stormy night, 
liis seeing a light in Alloway-Kirk, his hav- 
ing the curiosity to look in, his seeing a 
dance of witches, with the devil playing on 
the bagpipe to them, the scanty covering of 
one of the witches, which made him so far 
forget himself, as to cry JVeel loupen, short 
Saik ! — with the melancholy catastrophe of 
the piece is all a true story, that can be well 
attested by many respectable old people in 
that neighbourhood. 

I donot at present recollect any circum- 
stance respecting the other poems, that 
could be at all interesting ; even some of 
those 1 have mentioned, I am afraid, may 
appear trifling enough, but you will only 
make use of what appears to you of conse- 
quence. 

The following Poems in the first Edin- 
X)urgh Edition, were not in that published in 
Kilmarnock. Death and Dr. Hornbook ; the 
Brigs of Ayr ; the Calf; (the poet had been 
with Mr. Gavin Hamilton in the morning, 
who said jocularly to him when he was going 
<o church, in allusion to the injunction of 
some parents to their children, that he must 
be sure to bring him a note of the sermon at 
mid-day ; this address to the Reverend Gen- 
tleman on his text was accordingly pro- 
duced.) The Ordination ; the Address to the 
Unco Gidd ; Tam Samson's Elegy ; A Win- 
ter JSI'ight ; Stanzas on the same Occasion as 
the preceding Prayer ; Verses left at a Re- 
verend Friend's House ; The First Psalm; 
Prayer under the Pressure of violent An- 



guish; the First Six Verses of the Kineticlh 
Psalm; Verses to Miss Logan^ with Beattic's 
Poems ; To a Haggis ; Address to Edin- 
burgh; John Barleycorn; When Guilford 
Guid; Behind yon hills ichere Stinchar flows; 
Green groic the Rashes; Again rejoicing 
Nature sees ; The gloomy Night ; JVo Church- 
man lam. 

If you have never seen the first edition, it 
will, perhaps, not be amiss to transcribe the 
preface, that you may see the manner in 
which the Poet made his first awe-struck ap- 
proach to the bar of public judgment. 

[^Here followed the Preface as given in the 
first page of the Poems.'\ 

I am, dear Sir, 

Your most obedient humble servant, 

GILBERT BURN^ 

Dr. Ccrrie, Liverpool. 



To this history of the poems which are 
contained in this volume, it may be added, 
that our aut.'ior appears to have made little 
alteration in them after their original compo- 
sition, except ill some few instances where 
considerable additions have been introduced. 
After he had attracted the notice of the pub- 
lic by his first edition, various criticisms were 
offered him on the peculiarities of his style, 
as well as of his sentiments ; and some of 
these, which remain among his manuscripts, 
are by persons of great taste and judgment. 
Some few of these criticisms he adopted, but 
the far greater part he rejected ; and, though 
something has by this means been lost in 
point of delicacy and correctness, yet a 
deeper impression is left of the strength and 
originality of his genius. The firmness of 
our poet's character, arising from a just con- 
fidence in his own powers, may, in part, ex- 
plain his tenaciousness of his peculiar ex- 
pressions ; but it may be in some degree ac- 
counted for also, by the circumstances under 
which the poems were composed. Burns 
did not, like men of genius born under hap- 
pier auspices, retire in the moment of inspi- 
ration, to the silence and solitude of his stu- 
dy, and commit his verses to paper as they 
arranged themselves in his mind. Fortune 
did not afford him this indulgence. It was 
during the toils of daily labour that his fancy 
exerted itself; the muse, as he himself in- 
forms us, found him at the plough. In this 
situation, it was necessary to fix his verses 
on his memory, and it was often many days, 
nay weeks, after a poem was finished, before 
it was written down. During all this time, 
by frequent repetition, the association be- 
tween the thought and the expression was 
confirmed, and the impartiality of taste with 
which written language is reviewed and re- 



LETTERS. 



213 



touched after it has faded on the memory, 
could not in such instances be exftrted. The 
original manuscripts of many of his poems 
are preserved, and they differ in nothing 
material from the last printed edition. Some 
few variations may be noticed. 

1. In The Author's earnest Cry and Prayer 
after the stanza beginning, 

Erskine, a spunkie, JVorland Billie, 

there appears in his book of manuscripts the 
following : 

Thee, Sodger Hugh, my watchman stented. 

If Bardies e'er are represented ; 

I ken if that youi: sword were wanted 

Ye'd lend your hand ; 
But when there's ought to say anent it, 

Ye're at a stand. 

Sddgcr Hugh, is evidently the present 
Earl of Eglintoun, then Colonel Montgo- 
mery, of Coilsfield, and representing in Par- 
liament the county of Ayr. Why this was 
left out in printing does not appear. The 
noble earl will not be sorry to see this no- 
tice of him, familiar though it be, by a bard 
whose genius he admired, and whose fate he 
lamented. 

2. In The Address to the Deil, the second 
stanza ran originally thus : 

I.ang syne in Eden's happy scene, 
When strappin Adam's days were green, 
And Eve was like my bonnie Jean, 

My dearest part, 
A dancJn, sweet, young, handsome quean, 

Wi' guiltless heart. 

3. In The Elegy on Poor Maillic, the stan- 
za beginning, 

She was nae get o' moorland tips, 
was, at first, as follows ; 

She was nae get o' runted rams, 

Wi' woo' like goats, and legs like trams ; 

She was the flower o' Fairlee lambs, 

A famous breed ; 
Now Robin, greetin, chows the hams 

O' Mailtie dead. 

It were a pity that the Fairlee lambs should 
loose the honour once intended them. 

4. But the chief variations are found in 
the poems introduced for the first time, in 
the edition of two volumes, small octavo, pub- 
lished in 1792. Of th« poem written in Fri- 
ar's- Carse Hermitage, there are several edi- 
tion.?, and one of these has nothing in com- 
mon with the printed poem but the first four 
lines. The poem that is published, which 
was his second effort on the subject, received 
considerable alterations in printing. 



Instead of the six lines beginning, 
Say, man's true, genuine estimate, 
in manuscript the following are inserted :. 

Say, the criterion of their fate, 
Th' important query of their stale. 
Is not, art thou high or low ? 
Did thy fortune ebb or flow .'' 
Wert tliou cottager or king .■* 
Prince or peasant.'' — no such thing. 

5. The Epistle to R. G. Esq. of F. that is, 
to R. Graham, Esq. of Fintra, also under- 
went considerable alterations, as may be col- 
lected from the General Correspondence. — 
The style of poetry was new to our poet, and 
though he was fitted to excel in it, it cost 
him more trouble than his Scottish poetry. 
On the contrary, Tam o' Shanter seems to 
have issued perfect from the author's brain. 
The only considerable alteration made on 
reflection, is the omission of four lines, which 
had been inserted after the poem was finish- 
ed, at the end of the dieadful catalogue of 
the articles found on the " haly table," and 
which appeared in the first edition of the 
poem, printed separately — They came after 
the line. 

Which even to name, would be unlawju\ 

and are as follows, 

Three lawyers' tongues turned inside out, 
Wi' lies seam'd like a beggar's clout, 
And priests' heart, rotten, black as muck, 
Lay, stinking vile, in every neuk. 

These lines which, independent of other ob- 
jections, interrupt and destroy the emotions' 
of terror which the preceding description had 
excited, were very properly left out of the; 
printed collection, by the advice of Mr. Era- 
ser Tytler; to which Burns seems to have, 
paid much deference.* 

6. The Address to the shade of Thomson,, 
began in the first manuscript copy in the fol- 
lowing manner : 

While cold-eye'd Spring, a virgin coy, 

Unfolds lier verdant mantle sweei; 
Or pranks the sod in frolic joy, 

A carpet for her youthful feet ; 
While Summer, with a matron's grace^, 

Walks stately in the cooling shade ; 
And, oft delighted, loves to trace 

Tlie progress of the spiky blade ; 

* These four lines have been inadvertently re-' 
placed in the copy of Tam o' Shunter, published 
in the first volume of the " Poetry, Original anci 
Selected," of Brash and Reid, of Glasgow ; and 
to this circumstance is owing their bein^ noticed 
here. As our poet deliberately rejected the.m, it 
is hoped that no future printer will insert them. 



214 



LETTERS. 



While Autumn, benefactor kind, 
With age's hoary honours clad, 

Surveys with self- approving mind, 
Each creature on his bounty fed, (fee. 

By the alterations in the printed poem, it 
may be questioned whether the poetry is 
much improved ; the poet hovi^ever has found 
means to introduce the shades of Dryburgh, 
the residence of ihe Earl of Buchan, at 
whose request these verses were written. 

These observations might be extended, 
but what are already offered will satisfy cu- 
riosity, and there is nothing of any impor- 
tance that could be added. 



THE FOLLOWING LETTER 

Of Burns, which contains some hints relative 
to the origin of his celebratedtalc of '' Tarn 

[: o' Shanter," the Publishers trust, will be 
found interesting to every reader of his 
works. There appears no reason to doubt 
of its being genuine, though it has not been 
inserted in his correspondence published by 
Dr. Currie. 



TO FRANCIS GROSE, ESQ. F.A.S.^ 

Among the many witch stories I have 
heard relating to Alloway kirk, I distinctly 
remember only two or three. 

Upon a stormy night, amid whistling 
squalls of wind, and bitter blasts of hail ; 
in short, on such a night as the devil would 
choose to take the air in, a farmer or farmer's 
servant was plodding and plashing home- 
ward with his plough-irons on his shoulder, 
having been getting some repairs on them 
at a neighbouring smithy ; his way lay by 
the kirk of Alloway, and being rather on the 
anxious look out in approaching a place so 
well known to be a favourite haunt of the 
devil and the devil's friends and emissaries, 
he was struck aghast by discovering through 
the horrors of the storm and stormy night, a 

* This LetteK was first published in the Censu- 
ra Literaria, 1786, and was communicated to 
the Editor of that work by Mr. Gilchrist of Stam- 
ford, accompanied with the following remark: 

«« In a collection of miscellaneous papers of the 
Antiquary Grose, which I purchased a few years 
since, I found the following letter written to him 
liy Burns, when the former was collecting the An- 
tiquities of Scotland : When I premise it was 
on the second tradition that he afterwards formed 
the inimitable tale of ' Tam o' Shanter,' I cannot 
xloubt of its being read with great interest. It 
were ' burning day-light' to point out to a reader 
(and who is not a reader of Burns ?) the thoughts 
he afterwards transplanted into .the rhythmical 
tjarralive. O. G. 



light, which on his nearer approach plainly f* 
showed itself to proceed from the haunted 
cditice. Whether he had been fortified from 
above on his devout supplication, as is cus- j^ 
tomary with people when they suspect the ' 
immediate presence of Satan, or whether, 
according to another custom, he had got cou- 
rageously drunk at the smithy, I will not pre- 
tend to determine ; but so it was that he ven- 
tured to go up to, nay into the very kirk. — 
As good luck would have it, his temerity 
came off unpunished. 

The members of the infernal junto were 
all out on some midnight business or other, 
and he saw nothing but a kind of kettle or 
caldron depending from the roof, over tlie 
fire, simmering some heads of unchristened 
children, limbs of executed malefactors, &c. 
for the business of the night. — It was in for 
a penny, in for a pound, with the honest 
ploughman : so without ceremony he-, un- 
hooked the caldron from off the fire, and 
pouring out the damnable ingredients, in- 
verted it on his head, and carried it fairly 
home, where it remained long in the family, 
a living evidence of the truth of the story. 

Another story which I can prove to be 
equally aullieiitic, was as follows : 

On a market day in the town of Ayr, a 
farmer from Carrick, and consequently whose 
way laid by the very gate of Alloway kirk- 
yard, in order to cross the river Doon at the 
old bridge, which is about two or three hun- 
dred yards farther on than the said gate, had 
been detained by his business, till by the time 
he reached Alloway it was the wizard hour, 
between night and morning. 

Though he was terrified with ablaze stream- 
ing from the kirk, yet as it is a well-known 
fact that to turn back on these occasions is 
running by far the greatest risk of mischief, 
he prudently advanced on his road. When 
he had reached the gate of the kirk-yard, he 
was surprised and entertained, through the 
ribs and arches of an old Gothic window, 
which still faces the highway, to see a dance 
of witches merrily footing it round their old 
sooty blackguard master, who was keeping 
them all alive with the power of his bagpipe. 
The farmer stopping his horse to observe 
them a little, could plainly descry the faces 
of many old women of his acquaintance and 
neighbourhood. How the gentleman was 
dressed, tradition does not say ; but the la- 
dies were all in their smocks : and one of 
them happening unluckily to have a smock 
which was considerably too short to answer 
all the purposes of that piece of dress, our 
farmer was so tickled, that he involuntarily 
burst out, with a loud laugh, " Weel luppen, 
Maggy wi' the short sark!" and recollecting 
himself, instantly spurred his horse to the 
I top of his speed. I need not mention the 



LETTRRS. 



215 



universally known fact, that no diabolical 
power can pursue you beyond the middle of 
a running stream. Lucky it was for the 
poor farmer that the river Doonwas so near, 
for notwithstanding the speed of his horse, 
which was a good one, against he reached 
the middle of the arch of the bridge, and 
consequently the middle of the stream, the 
pursuine, vengeful hags, were so close at his 
heels, that one of them actually sprung to 
seize him ; but it was too late, nothing was 
on her side of the stream but the horse's tail, 
which immediately gave w'ay at her infernal 
grip, as if blasted by a stroke of lightning; 
but the farmer was beyond her reach. How- 
ever, the unsightly, tailless condition of the 
vigorous steed, was, to the last hour of the 
noble creature's life, an awful warning to the 
Carrick farmers, not to stay too late in Ayr 
markets. 

The last relation I shall give, though 
equally true, is not so well identified, as the 
two former, with regard to the scene ; but 
as the best authorities give it for Alloway, I 
shall relate it. 

On a summer's evening, about the time 
that nature puts on her sables to rnourn the 
expiry of a cheerful day, a shepherd boy be- 
longing to a farmer in the immediate neigh- 
bourhood of Alloway kirk, had just folded his 



charge, and was returning home. As he 
passed the kirk, in the adjoining field, he fell 
in with a ciew of men and women who were 
busy pulling stems of the plant Ragwort. 
He observed that as each person pulled a 
Ragwort, he or she got astride of it, and 
called out, " up horsie !'" on which the Rag- 
wort flew off" like Pegasus, through the air 
with its rider. The foolish boy likewise 
pulled his Ragwort, and cried with the rest, 
" up horsie !" and, strange to tell, away he 
flew with the company. The first stage at 
which the cavalcade stopped, was a mer- 
chant's wine cellar in Bordeaux, where, 
without saying by your leave, they quaffed 
away at the best the cellar could afford, un- 
til the morning, foe to the imps and works 
of darkness, threatened to throw light on the 
matter, and frightened them from their ca- 
rousals. 

The poor shepherd lad, being equally a 
stranger to the scene and the liquor, heed- 
lessly got himself drunk ; and when the rest 
took horse, he fell asleep, and was found so 
next day by some of the people belonging to 
the merchant. Somebody that understood 
Scotch, asking him what he was, said he was 
such a one's herd in Alloway, and by some 
means or other getting home again, he lived 
long to tell the world the wondrous tale. 

1 am, &c. &c. 



END OF THE LETTERS. 



1^ 



^^<h 



No. I. — Xote A. See Life, p. 2. 

The importance of the national establish- i 
ment of parish schools in Scotland will justi- 
fy a short account of the legislative provi- 
sions respecting it, especially as the subject 
has escaped the notice of all the historians. 

By an act of the king (James Vlth) and 
privy council of the 10th of December, 1616, 
it was recommended to his bishops to deale 
and travel with the heritors (land proprie- 
tors,) and the inhabitants of tbe respective 
parishes in their respective dioceses, towards 
the fixing upon " some certain, solid, and 
sure course" for settling and entertaining a 
school in each parish. This was ratified by 
a statute of Charles I (the act 1633, chap 5 ) 
which empowered the bishop, with the con- 
sent of the heritors of a parish, or of a ma- 
jority of the inhabitants, if the heritors re- 
fused to attend the meeting, to assess every 
plough of land (that is, every farm, in pro- 
portion to the number of ploughs upon it) 
with a certain sum for establishing a school. 
This was an ineffectual provision, as depend- 
ing onth« consent and pleasure of the heri- 
tors and inhabitants. Therefore a new order 
of things was introduced by Stat. 1646, chap. 
17, which obliges the heritors and minister 
of each parish to meet and assess the several 
heritors with the requisite sum for building 
a school-house, and to elect a schoolmaster, 
and modify a salary for him in all time to 
come. The salary is ordered not to be un- 
der one hundred, nor ab(we two hundred 
merks, that is, in our present sterling mo- 
ney, not under 61. lis. Ihd. nor above 11/. 2^. 
2d and the assessment is to be laid on the 
land in the same proportion as it is rated for 
the support of the clergy, and as it regulates 
the payment of the land-tax. But in case 
the heritors of any parish, or the majority of 
them, should fail to discharge this duty, then 
the persons forming what is called the Coin- 
onittee of Supply of the county (consisting of 
the principal landholders,) or any five of 
them, are authorized by the statute to impose 
the assessment instead of them, on the re- 
presentation of the presbytery in which the 
parish is situated To secure the choice of 
a proper teacher, the right of election by the 
heritors, by a statute passed in 1693, chap. 
22, is made subject to the review and con- 
trol of the presbytery of the district, who 
have the examination of the person proposed 
committed to them, both as to his qualifica- 
tions as a teacher, and as to his proper de- 
portment in the office when settled in it. — 
The election of the heritors is therefore only 



a presentment of a person for the approba- 
tion of the presbytery ; who, if they find him 
unfit, may declare his incapacity, and thus 
oblige them to elect anew. So far is stated 
on unquestionable authority.* 

The legal salary of the schoolmaster was 
not inconsiderable at the time it was fixed ; 
but by tlie decrease in the value of money, 
it is now certainly inadequate to its object ; 
and it is painful to observe, that the land- 
holders of Scotland resisted the humble ap- 
plication of the schoolmasters to the legisla- 
ture for its increase, a few years ago. The 
number of parishes in Scotland is 877 ; and 
if we allow the salary of a schoolmaster in 
each to be on an average seven pounds ster- 
ling, the amount of the legal provision 
will be 6,139Z. sterling. If we suppose the 
wages paid by the scholars to amount to 
twice the sum, which is probably beyond the 
truth, the total of the expences among 1,526, 
492 persons (the whole population of Scot- 
land,) of this most important establishment, 
will be 18,417Z But on this, as well as on 
other subjects respecting Scotland, accurate 
information may soon be expected from Sir 
John Sinclair's Analysis of his Statistics, 
which will complete the immortal monument 
he has reared to his patriotism. 

The benefit arising in Scotland from the 
instruction of the poor, was soon felt; and 
by an act of the British parliament, 4 Geo. I. 
chap 6, it is enacted, " that of the moneys 
arising from the sale of the Scottish estates 
forfeited in the rebellion of 1715. 2,000/. ster- 
ling shall be converted into a capital stock, 
the interest of which shall be laid out in 
erecting and maintaining schools in the 
Highlands. The Society for propagating 
Christian Knowledge, incorporated in 1709, 
have applied a large part of their fund for 
the same purpose. By their report, 1st May, 
1795, the annual sum employed by them, in 
supporting their schools in the Highlands and 
Islands, was 3,913Z. 195. li'd., in which are 
taught the English language, reading and 
writing, and the principles of religion. The 
schools of the society are additional to the 
legal schools, which from the great extent of 
many of the Highland parishes, were found 
insufficient Besides the established schools, 
the lower classes of people in Scotland, where 
the parishes are large, often combine toge- 
ther, and establish private schools of their 
own, at one of which it was that Burns re- 



* The authority of A. Frazer Tytler, and Da- 
vid Hume, Esqrs. 



APPENDIX. 



217 



cclvcd the principal part of his education. — 
So convinced indeed are the poor people of 
Scotland, by experience, of the benefit of in 
struction to their children, that, though 
they may often find it difficult to feed and 
clothe them, some kind of school instruction 
they almost always procure them. 

The influence of the school-establishment 
of Scotland on the peasantry of that country, 
seems to have decided by experience a ques- 
tion of legislation of the utmost importance 
— whether a system of national instruction 
for the poor be favourable to morals and 
good government. In the year 1698, Fletcher 
of Salton declared as follows : " There are 
at this day in Scotland, two hundred thousand 
people begging from door to door. And 
though the number of them be perhaps dou- 
ble to what it was formerly, by reason of this 
present great distress (a famine then prevail- 
ed,) yet in all times there have been about 
one hundred thousand of those vagabonds, 
who have lived without any regard or sub- 
jection either to the laws of the land, or even 
those of God and Nature ; fathers incestu- 
ously accompanying with their own daugh- 
ters, the son with the mother, and the bro- 
ther with the sister." He goes on to say ; 
that no magistrate ever could discover that 
they had ever been baptized, or in what way 
one in a hundred went out of the world. He 
accuses them as frequently guilty of robbery, 
and sometimes of murder : " In years of plen- 
ty," says he, •' many thousands of men meet 
together in the mountains, where they feast 
and riot for many days ; and at country wed- 
dings, markets, burials, and other public oc- 
casions, they are to be seen, both men and 
women, perpetually drunk, cursing, blas- 
pheming, and fighting together."* This 
high-minded statesman, of whom it is said 
by a contemporary " that he would lose his 
life readily to save his country, and would 
not do a base thing to serve it," thought the 
evil so great that he proposed as a remedy, 
the revival of domestic slavery, according to 
the practice of his adored republics in the 
classic ages ! A better remedy has been 
found, which in the silent lapse of a century 
has proved effectual. The statute of 1696, 
the noble legacy of the Scottish Parliament 
to their country, began soon after this to ope- 
rate ; and happily, as the minds of the poor 
received instruction, the Union opened ne\y 
channels of industry, and new fields of action 
to their view. 

At the present day there is perhaps no 
country in Europe, in which, in proportion 
to its population, so small a number of crimes 
fall under the chastisement of the criminal 
law, as Scotland. We have the besf author- 
ity for asserting, that on an average of thirty 
years, preceding the year 1797, the execu- 
tions in that division of the island did not 



amount to six annually ; and one quarter- 
sessions for the town of Manclicster only, 
has sent, according to Mr. Hume, more fe- 
lons to the plantations, than all the judges of 
Scotland usually do in the space of a year.* 
It might appear invidi us to attempt a cal- 
culation of the many thousand individuals in 
iVlai\phester and its vicinity who can neither 
read nor write. A majority of those who 
can suffer the punishment of death for their 
crimes in every part of England are, it is be- 
lieved, in this miserable state of ignorance. 

There is now a legal provisicn for paro- 
chial schools, or rather for a school in each 
of the different townships into which the 
country is divided, in several of the northern 
states of North America. They are, how- 
ever, of recent origin there, excepting in New 
England, where they were established in the 
last century, probably about the same time 
as in Scotland, and by the same religious 
sect. In the Protestant Cantons of Switzer- 
land, the peasantry have the advantage of si- 
milar schools, though established and°endow- 
ed in a different manner. This is also the 
case in certain districts in England, particu- 
larly in the northern parts of Yorkshire and 
of Lancashire, and in the counties of Wast- 
moreland and Cumberland. 

A law, providing for the instruction of the 
poor, was passed by the Parliament of Ire- 
land ; but the fund was diverted from its pur- 
pose, and the measure was entirely frustrat- 
ed Prok Pvdor ! 

The similarity of character between the 
Swiss and the Scotch, and between the 
Scotch and the people of New England, can 
scarcely be overlooked. That it arises in a 
great measure from the similarity of their 
institutions for instruction, cannot he ques- 
tioned. It is no doubt increased by physical 
causes. With a superior degree of instruc- 
tion, each of these nations possesses a coun- 
try that may be said to be sterile, in the 
neighbourhood of countries comparatively 
rich. Hence emigrations and the other ef- 
fects on conduct and character which such 
circumstances naturally produce. This sub- 
ject is in a high degree curious. The points 
of dissimilarity between these nations might 
be traced to their causes also, and the wh'ole 
investigation would perhaps admit of an ap- 
proach to certainty in our concluisions, to 
which such inquiries seldom lead. How 
much superior in morals, in intellect, and in 
happiness, the peasantry of those parts of 
England are who have opportunities of in- 
struction, to the same class in other situa- 
tions, those who inquire into the subject will 
speedily discover. The peasantry of West- 
moreland, and of the other districts mention- 
ed above, if their physical and moral quali- 
ties be taken together, are, in the opinion of 



* Political WorksofAndreiv Fletcher, octavo, ! * Hume's Commentaries on the Laws of Scot- 
London. \n.'c\(\^mirodudion^ p. 50. 



218 



APPENDIX, 



the Editor, superior to the peasantry of any 
part of the island. 

^'ote B. Sec p. 2. 

It has been supposed that Scotland is less 
populous and less improved on acctiunt of 
this emigration; but such conclusions are 
doubtful, if not wholly fallacious. Thejirin- 
ciple of population acts in no country to the 
full extent of its power : marriage is every 
where retarded beyond the period pointed 
out by nature, by the difficulty of supporting 
a family ; and this obstacle is greatest in long 
settled communities. The emigration of a 
part of a people facilitates the marriage of 
the rest, by producing a relative increase in 
the means of subsistence. The arguments 
of Adam Smith, for a free export of corn, are 
perhaps applicable with less exception to the 
free export of people. The more certain the 
vent, the greater the cultivation of the soil. 
This subject has been well investigated by 
Sir James Stewart, whose principles have 
been expanded and farther illustrated in a 
late truly philosophical Essay on Population. 
In fact, Scotland has increased in the num- 
ber of its inhabitants in the last forty years, 
as the Statistics of Sir John Sinclair clearly 
prove, but not in the ratio that some had 
supposed. The extent of the emigration of 
the Scots may be calculated with some de- 
gree of confidence from the proportionate 
number of the two sexes in Scotland ; a point 
that may be established pretty exactly by an 
examinaticm of the invaluable Statistics al- 
ready mentioned. If we suppusu that there 
is' an equal number of male and female na- 
tives of Scotland, alive someiohere or other, 
the excess by which the females exceed the 
males in their own country, may be consi- 
dered to be equal to the number of Scotch- 
men living out of Scotland. But though the 
males born in Scotland be admitted to be as 
13 to J 2, and though some of the females 
emigrate as well as the males, this mode of 
calculation would probably make the number 
of expatriated Scotchmen, at any one time 
alive, greater than the truth. The unhealthy 
climates into which they emigrate, the ha- 
zardous services in which so many of them 
engage, render the mean life of those who 
leave Scotland (to speak in the language of 
calculators) not perhaps of half the value of 
the mean life of those who remain. 

Note C. See p. 5. 

In the punishment of this offence the 
Church employed formerly the arm of the 
civil power. During the reign of James the 
Vlth (James the First of England,) crimi- 
nal connexion between unmarried persons, 
was made the subject of a particular statute 
(See Hume's Commentaries on the Laws of 
Scotland, Vol. ii. p. 332,) which, from its ri- 
gour, was never much enforced, and which 
has long fallen into disuse. When in the 
middle of the last century, the Puritans suc- 
ceeded in the overthrow of the monarchy in 



both divisions of the island, fornication was 
a crime against which they directed their 
utmost zeal. It was made punishable with 
death in the second instance, (See Blackstone, 
b. iv. chap. 4 JVo. II.) Happily this sanguin- 
ary statute was swept away along with the 
ottier acts of the Commonwealth, on the re- 
storation of Charles If. to whose temper and 
manners it must have been peculiarly abhor- 
rent. And after the revolution, when seve- 
ral salutary acts passed during the suspen- 
sion of the monarchy, were re-enacted by 
the Scottish Parliament, particularly tliat 
for the establishment of parish-schools, the 
statute punishing fornication with death, was 
suffered to sleep in the grave of the stern fa- 
natics who had given it birth. 

A'oteD. Seep.G. 

The legitimation of children, by subse- 
quent marriage became the Roman law un- 
der the Christian emperors. It was the ca- 
non law of modern Europe, and has been es- 
tablished in Scotland from a very remote pe- 
riod. Tiius a child born a bastard, if his pa- 
rents afterwards marry, enjoys all the privi- 
leges of seniority over his brothers afterwards 
born in wedlock. In the Parliament of Mer- 
ton, in the reign of Henry III. the English 
clergy made a vigorous attempt to introduce 
this article into the law of England, and it 
was on this occasion that the Barons made 
the noted answer, since so often appealed to ; 
Quod nolunt leges Anglice mutare ; quae hue 
usque usitatce sunt approhatcB. With regard 
to what constitutes a marriage, the law of 
Scotland, as explained, p. 0, differs from the 
Roman Law, which required the ceremony 
to be performed in facie ecclesicc. 



No. II. 



Note A. Seep. 11. 

It may interest some persons to peruse the 
first poetical production of our Bard, and it 
is therefore extracted from a kind of common 
place book, which he seems to have begun 
in his twentieth year; and which he enti- 
tled, '' Observations, Hints, Songs, Scraps 
of Poetry, <^c. by Robert Burness, a man who 
had little art in making money, and still less 
in keeping it ; but v^as, however, a man of 
some sense, a great deal of honesty, and un- 
bounded good will to every creature, ra- 
tional or irrational. As he was but little in- 
debted to a scholastic education, and bred at 
a plough-tail, his performances must be 
strongly tinctured witli his unpolished rustic 
way of life ; but as I believe they are really 
his own, it may be some entertainment to a 
curious observer of human nature, to see 
how a ploughman thinks and feels, under the 
pressure of love, ambition, anxiety, grief, 
with the like cares and passions, which how- 
ever diversified by the modes and manners 
of life, operate pretty much alike, I believe, 
in all the species." 



APPENDIX. 



219 



" Pleasing when youth is long expired to trace, 
The forms our pencil or our pen design'd, 

Such w'as our youthful air, and shape, and face, 
Such the soft image of the youthful mind. 

i*Shensto7ie. 

This MS. book, to which our poet prefixed 
this account of himself, and of his intention 
in preparing it, contains several of his earlier 
poems, some as they were printed, and others 
in their embryo state. The song alluded to 
is ^at beginning, 

O once I lov'd a bonnie lass, 
Ay, and I love her still. 

See Poems, p. 145. 

It must be confessed that this sont; gives 
no indication of the future genius of Burns; 
but he himself seems to have been fond of 
it, probably from the recollections it excited. 

J\^ote B. See p. 13. 

At the time that our poet took the resolu- 
tion of becoming wise, he procured a little 
book of blank paper, with the purpose (ex- 
pressed on the first page) of making farming 
memorandums upon it. These farming me- 
morandums are curious enough ; many of 
them having been written with a pencil, and 
are now obliterated, or at least illegible. A 
considerable number are however legible, 
and a specimen may gratify the reader. It 
must be premised, that the poet kept the 
book by him several years— that he wrote 
upon it, here and there, with the utmost ir- 
regularity, and tliat on the same page are 
notations very distant from each other as to 
time and place. 



EXTEMPORE, April, 1782. 
O why the deuce should I repine, 
And be an ill foreboder ; 

FRAGMENT. Tune—' Donald Blue,' 
O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles, 
Ve're safer at your spinning wheel ; 

See Poevis, p. 154. 

For he's far aboon Dunkel the night 
Maun white the stick and a' thai. 

Mem — To get for Mr. Johnson these two 
songs : — * Mo Uy,1 Molly, my dear honey.' — 
* The cock and the hen, the deer in her den.' 



M! Cloris! Sir Peter Halket, of Pitfer- 
ran, the author. — JVota, he married her — the 
heiress of Pitferran. 

Colonel George Crawford, the author of 
Down the burn Davy. 

Pinky-house, by J. Mitchell. 

My apron Deary ! and Jimynta, by Sir G. 
Elliot. 

Willie was a wanton JVag, was made on 
Walkinshaw, of Walkinshaw, near Paisley. 

Hoe na a laddie hit ane, Mr. Clunzee. ' 



51 



The bonnie wee thing — beautiful — Lundie's 
Dream — very beautiful. 

He tilVt and she tilVt — assez bien. 

Armstrong's Farewell — fine. 

The author of the Highland Queen was a 
Mr M'lver, Purser of The Solboy. 

Fife an^ a' the land about it, R. Fergusson. 

The author of The bush aboon Traquair, 
was a Dr. Stewart. 

Polwart on the Green, composed by Capt. 
John Drummond M'Grigor of Bochaldie. 

Me7n I'o inquire if Mrs. Cockburn was 
the author of/ haesecn the smiling. Sec. 
# * * » 

The above may serve as a specimen. All 
the notes on farming are obliterated. 

Note C. See p. 26, 27. 

Rules and regulations to be observed in the 
Bachelor's Club. 
1st. The club shall meet at TarboUon 
every fourth Monday night, when a ques- 
tion on any subject shall be proposed, dis- 
puted points of religion, only excepted, in 
tiie manner hereafter directed; which ques- 
tion is to be debnted in the club, each mem- 
ber taking whatever side he thinks proper. 

2d. When the club is met, the president, 
or, he failing, some one of the members, till 
he come, shall take his seat; then the ofher 
members shall seat themselves: those who 
are for one side of the question, on the presi- 
dent's right hand ; and those who are for the 
other side, on his left j which of tliem shall 
have the right hand is to be determined by 
the president. The president and four of 
the members being present, shall have power 
to transact any ordinary part of the society's 
business. 

3d. The club met and seated, the presi- 
dent shall read the question out of the club's 
book of records, (which book is always to be 
kept by the president,) then the two mem- 
bers nearest the president shall cast lots who 
of them shall speak first, and according as 
the lot shall deterniiue, tlie member nearest 
the president on that side shall deliver his 
opinion, and the member nearest on the other 
side shall reply to him ; then the second 
member of the side that spoke first ; then the 
second member of the side that spoke se- 
cond ; and so on to the end of the company ; 
but if there be fewer members on the one 
side than on the other, when all the members 
of the least side have spoken according to 
their places, any of them, as they please 
among themselves, may reply to the remain- 
ing members of the opposite side ; when both 
sides have spoken, the president shall give 
his opinion, after which thej'may go over it 
a second or more times, and so continue tlie 
question. 

4th. The club shall then proceed to the 
choice of a question for the subject of next 
night's meeting. The president shall first 
propose one, and- any other member who 



220 



APPENDIX. 



chooses may propose more questions; and 
whatever one of them is most agreeable lo 
tlie majority of members, shall be the sub- 
ject of debate next club-night. 

5tb, The club shall, lastly, elect a new 
president for the next meeting : the presi- 
dent shall first name one, then any of the 
club may name another, and whoever of them 
has the majority of votes shall be duly elect- 
ed ; allowing the president the first vote, and 
the casting vote upon a par, but none other. 
Then after a general toast to mistresses of 
the club, they shall dismiss. 

Cth. There shall be no private conversa- 
tion carried on during the time of debate, 
nor shall any member interrupt anotJier 
while he is speaking, under the penalty of a 
reprimand from the president for the first 
fault, doubling his share of the reckoning for 
the second, trebling it for the third, and so 
on in proportion for every other fault, pro- 
vided alvvay, however, that any member may 
speak at any time after leave asked, and 
given by the president. All swearing and 
profane language, and particularly all ob- 
scene and indecent conversation, is strictly 
prohibited, under the same penalty as afore- 
said in the first clause of this article. 

7th. No member, on any pretence what- 
ever, shall mention any of the club's affairs to 
any other person but a brother member, un- 
der the pain of being excluded ; and particu- 
larly if any member shall reveal any of the 
speeches or affairs of the club, with a view to 
ridicule or laugh at any of the rest of the 
members, he shall be for ever excommuni- 
cated from the society ; and the rest of the 
members are desired, as much as possible, to 
avoid, and have no communication with him 
as a friend or comrade. 

8th. Every member shall attend at the 
meetings, without he can give a proper ex- 
cuse for not attending ; and it is desired that 
every one who cannot attend, will send his 
excuse with some other member : and he 
who shall be absent three meetings without 
sending such excuse, shall be summoned to 
the club-night, when if he fail to appear, or 
send an excuse, he shall be excluded. 

9th. The club shall not consist of more 
than sixteen members, all bachelors, belong- 
ing to the parish of Tarbolton : except a 
brother member marry, and in that case he 
may be continued, if the majority of the club 
think proper. No person shall be admitted a 
member of this society, without the unani- 
mous consent of the club j and any member 
may withdraw from the club altogether, by 
giving a notice to the president in writing of 
his departure. 

lOth. Every man proper for a member of 
this so^ciety, must have a frank, honest, open 
heart ; above any thing dirty or mean ; and 
must be a profest lover of one or more of the 
female sex. No haughty, self-conceited per- 



* The banks of Esk, in Dumfriesshire, are 
here alluded to. 

t A beautiful little mount, which stands im- 
mediately before, or rather forms a part of 
Shrewsbury castle, a seat of Sir William Pulte- 
ney, baronet. 



son, who looks upon himself as superior to 
the rest of the club, and especially no mean- 
spirited, worldly mortal, whose only will is 
to heap up money, shall upon any pretence 
whatever be admitted. In short, the proper 
person for this society is, a cheerful, honest 
hearted lad, who, if he has a friend that is 
true, and a mistress that iskind, and as much 
wealth as genteelly to make both ends meet 
— is just as happy as this world can make him. 

X{ote D. See p. 73. ^ 

A great number of manuscript poems were i 
found among the papers of Burns, addressed j 
to him by admirerw of his genius, from diffe- 
rent parts of Britain, as well as from Ire- 
land and America. Among these was a 
poetical epistle from Mr. Telford, of Shrews- 
bury, of superior merit. It is written in the 
dialect of Scotland (of which country Mr. 
Telford is a native,) and in the versification 
generally employed by our poet himself. Its 
object is to recommend to him other subjects 
of a serious nature, similar to that of the 
Cotter's Saturday Night; and the reader 
will find that the advice is happil}' enforced 
by example. It would have given the editor 
pleasure to have inserted the whole of this 
poem, which he hopes will one day see the 
light : he is happy to have obtained, in the 
mean time, his friend Mr. Telford's permis- 
sion to insert the following extracts : 

****** 

Pursue, O Burns ! thy happy style, 
" Those manner-painting strains," that while 
They bear me northward mony a mile, 

Recall the days, 
When tender joys, with pleasing smile, 

Bless'd my young ways. 

l?ee my fond companions rise, 
I join the happy village joys, 
I see our green hills touch the skies, 

And through the woods, 
I hear the river's rushing noise, j 

Its roaring floods.* ' 

No distant Swiss with warmer glow, 
E'er heard his native music flow, 
Nor could his wishes stronger grow, 

Than still have mine, 
When up this ancient mountf I go, 

With songs of thine. 

O happy Bard ! thy gen'rous flame U 

Was given to raise thy country's fame ; " 

For this thy charming numbers came — 

Thy matchless lays ; 
Then sing, and save her virtuous name, 

To latest days. 
But mony a theme awaits thy muse, 
Fine as thy Cotter's sacred views, 
Then in such verse thy soul infuse, 

With holy air ; 



APPENDIX. 



221 



And sing the course the pious choose, 

With all thy care. 

How with religious awe impressed, 
They open lay the guileless breast ; 
And youth and age with fears distress'd, 
All due prepare, 
The symbols of eternal rest 

Devout to share.* 

How down ilk lang withdrawing hill, 
Successive crowds the valleys fill ; 
While pure religious converse still 

Beguiles the way, 
And gives a cast to youthful will. 

To suit the day. 

How placed along the sacred board, 
Their hoary pastor's looks adored, — 
His voice with peace and blessing stored, 

Sent from above ; 
And faith, and hope, and joy afford, 

And boundless love. 

O'er this, with warm seraphic glow. 
Celestial beings, pleased bow ; 
And, whisper'd, hear the holy vow, 

'Mid grateful tears ; 
And mark amid such scenes below. 

Their future peers. 



O mark the awful solemn scene If 
When hoary winter clothes the plain, 
Along the snowy hills is seen 

Approaching slow, 
In mourning weeds, the village train. 

In silent wo. 

Some much respected brother's bier 
(By turns the pious task they share) 
With heavy hearts they forward bear 

Along the path. 
Where nei'bours saw in dusky air,|; 

The light of death. 

And when they pass the rocky how. 
Where binwood bushes o'er them flow. 
And move around the rising knovve, 

Where far away 
The kirk-yard trees are seen to grow, 

By th' water brae. 

Assembled round the narrow grave. 
While o'er them wintery tempests rave. 
In the cold wind their gray locks wave, 

As low they lay 
Their brother's body 'mongst the lave 

Of parent clay. 

Expressive looks from each declare 
The griefs within their bosom bear ; 
One lioly bow devout they share. 

Then home return. 
And tliink o'er all the virtues fair 

Of liim they mourn. 



* The Sacrament generally administered in the 
country parishes of Scotland in the open air. E. 

f A Scotch funeral. 

I This alludes to a superstition prevalent in 
Eskdale, and Annandale, that a light precedes in 
the night every funeral, marking the precise path 
it is to pass. E. 



Say how by early lessons taiighf, 
(Truth's pleasing nir is willing caught; 
Congenial to th' untainted thought, 

Tlie shepherd boy, 
Who tends his flocks on lonely height 

Feels holy joy. 

Is aught on earth so lovely known. 
On sabbath morn and far alone. 
His guileless soul all naked shown 

• Before his God-:' 

Such pray'rs must welcome reach the throne, 
And bless'd abode. 

O tell ! with what a heartfelt joy. 
The parent eyes the virtuotis boy ; 
And all his constant, kind employ, 

Is how to give 
The best of lear he can enjoy. 

As means to live. 

The parish-school, its curious site, 
The master who can clear indite, 
And lead him on to count and write. 

Demand thy care ; 
Nor pass the ploughman's school at night 
Without a share. 

Nor yet the tenty curious lad, 
Who o'er the ingle hingshis head. 
And begs of nei'bours books to read I 

For hence arise 
Thy country's sons, who far are spread, 

Baith bauld and wise. 



The bonnie lasses, as they spin. 
Perhaps with Allan's sangs begin. 
How Tay and Tweed smooth flowing rin 

Through flowery iiovvs; 
Where Shepherd lads their sweethearts win 

With earnest vows. 

Or may be, Burns, tliy thrilling page 
May a' their virtuous thoughts engage. 
While playful youth and placid age 

In concert join, 
To bless the bard, who, gay or sage, • 

improves the mind. 

H ii * * 

Long may their harmless, simple ways. 
Nature's own pure emotions raise ; 
May still the dear romantic blaze 

Of purest love. 
Their bosoms warm to latest days. 

And ay improve. 

May still each fond attacliinent glow. 
O'er woods, o'er si reams, o'er hills of snow, 
May rugged rocks siill dearer grow ; 

And may their souls 
Even love the warlock glens which through 

The tempest howls. 

To eternize such themes as the.=e. 
And all liieTr happy manners seize, 
Will every virtuous bosom please; 

And high in fame 
To future times will justly raise 

Tliy patriot name. 

While all the venal tribes decay, 
That bask in flattery's flaunting ray — 
The noisome vermin of a day, 

Thy works shall gain 
O'er every mind a boundless sway, 

A lasting reign. 



22-2 



APPEXDIX, 



Wlien winter biiuis llie harfleii'd plains, 
Aroiuid each bearili, ihe hoary swains 
ytill teach the rising youth thy strains ; 

And anxious say, 
Our blessing with our sons remains, 

And BcRNs's Lay. 



No. III. 



(First inserted m the Second Edition.) 

The editor has particular pleasure in pre- 
senting to the public the following letter, to 
the due understanding of which a few pre- 
vious observations are necessary. 

The Biographer of Burns was naturally 
desirous of hearing the opinion of the friend 
and brother of the poet, on the manner in 
which he had executed his task, before a se- 
cond edition should be committed to the 
press. He had the satisfaction of receiving 
this opinion, in a letter dated the 21th of 
August, approving of the Life in very oblig- 
ing terms, and offering one or two trivial 
corrections as to names and dates chiefly, 
which are made in this edition. One or two 
observations were offered of a different kind. 
In the 319th page, first edition of the first vol., ■ 
a quotation is made from the pastoral song, I 
Ettriek Banks, and an explanation given of j 
the phrase " mony feck," which occurs in j 
this quotation. Supposing the sense to be 
complete after " mony," the editor had con- 
sidered " feck" a rustic oath which confirm- 
ed the assertion. The words were therefore 
separated by a comma. Mr. Burns consi- 
dered this an error. " Feck," he presumes, 
is the Scottish word for quantity, and " mo- 
ny feck," to mean simply, very many. The 
editor in yielding to this authority, expressed 
some hesitation, and hinted that the phrase 
" mony feck" was, in Burns's sense, a pleo- 
nasm or barbarism which deformed this beau- 
tiful song.^ His reply to this observation 
makes the first clause of the following letter. 

In the same communication he informed 
me, that the Mirror and the Lounger were 
proposed by him to the conversation Club of 
Mauchline, and that he had thoughts of giv- 
ing me his sentiments on the remarks I had 
made respecting the fitness of such works for 
such societies. The observations of such a 
man on such a subject, the Editor conceived, 
would be received with particular interest by 
the public ; and, having pressed earnestly for 
them, they will be found in the following let- 
ter. Of the value of this communication, 
delicacy towards his very respectable cor- 
respondent prevents him from expressing 
his opinion. Tlie original letter is in the 
hands of Messrs. Caddell and Davies. 

* The correction made by Gilbert Burns has 
also been suggested by a writer in the Monthly 
Magazine, under the s'lgnatiue of Albion .- who, 
t'oi- taking this trouble, and for mentioning the au- 
tiior of the poein of Donochl-head, deserves the 
Editor's thjrnks. 



Dinning, Dumfriesshire ^'i^Mk Oct. 1800. 
Dear Sir, 

Yours of the 17th inst. came to my hand 
yesterday, and I sit down this afternoon to 
write you in return ; but when I shall be , 
able to finish all I wish to say to you, I can- j 
not tell. I am sorry your conviction is not 
complete resi)ecting/ecA;. There is no doubt, 
that if you take two English words which ;j 
appear synonymous to mony feck, and judge ' 
by the rules of English construction, it will 
appear a barbarism. I believe if you take 
this mode of translating from any language, 
the effect will frequently be the same. But 
if you take the expression mony feck to have, 
as I have stated it, the same meaning with 
the English expression very many (and such 
licenf^e every translator must be allowed, es- 
pecially when he translates from a simple 
dialect which has never been subjected to 
rule, ana where the precise meaning of words 
is of Consequence, not minutely attended to,) 
it will be well enough. One thing I am cer- 
tain of, that ours is the sense universally un- 
derstood in the country ; and I believe no 
Scotsman, who has lived contented at home, 
pleased with the simple manners, the simple 
melodies, and the simple dialect of his native 
country, unvitiated by foreign intercourse, 
'' whose soul proud science never taught to 
stray," ever discovered barbarism in the song 
of Ettriek Banks. 

The story you have heard of the gable of 
my father's house falling down, is simply as 
follows:* — When my father built his " clay 
biggin," he put in two stone jambs, as they 
are called, and a lintel, carrying up a chim- 
ney in his clay gable. The consequence was. 
that as the gable subsided, the jambs, re- 
maining firm, threw it off its centre ; and, 
one very stormy morning, when my brother 
was nine or ten years old, a little before day- 
light a part of the gable fell out, and the rest 
appeared so shattered, that my mother, with 
the young poet, had to be carried through 
the storm to a neighbour's house, where 
they remained a week till their own dwelling 
was adjusted. That you may not think too 
meanly of this house, or my father's taste iu 
building, by supposing the poet's description 
in The Vision (which is entirely a fancy 
picture) applicable to it, allow me to take 
notice to you, that the house consisted of a . 
kitchen in one end, and a room in the other, 
with a fire place and chimney ; that my fa- 
ther had constructed a concealed bed iu the 
kitchen, with a small closet at the end, of the 
same materials with the house ; and, when 
altogether cast over, outside and in, with 
lime, it had a neat comfortable appearance, 
such as no family of the same rank, in the 
present improved style of living, would think 
themselves ill-lodged in. I wish likewise to 
take notice, in passing, that although the 

* The Editor had heard a report that the poet 
was born in the midst of a storm which blew down 
a part of the house. E. 



APPENDIX. 



223 



" Cotter," in the Saturday Night, is an ex- 
act copy of my father in his manners, his fa- 
mily-devotion, and exhortations, yet the 
other parts of tho description do not apply to 
our family. None of us were ever '• at ser- 
vice out ama-^g the neebours roun." Instead 
of our depositing our "sairwon penny fee" 
with our parents, my father laboured hard 
and lived with the most rigid economy, that 
he might bs able to keep his children at 
home, thereby having an opportunity of 
watching the progress of our young minds 
and forming in them earlier habits of piety 
and virtue ; and from this motive alone did 
he engage in farming, the source of all his 
difficulties and distresses. 

When I threatened you in my last with a 
long letter on the subject of the books I re- 
commended to the Mauchline club, and the 
effects of refinement of taste on the labour- 
ing classes of men, I meant merely, that I 
wished to write you on that subject with the 
view that, in some future communication to 
the public, you might take up the subject 
more at large ; that by means of your happy 
manner of writing, the attention of people of 
power and infiueiice might be fixed on it 1 
had little expectation, however, that I should 
overcome my indolence, and the difficulty of 
arranging my thoughts so far as to put my 
threat in execution } till some time ago, be- 
fore I had finished my harvest, having a call 
from Mr. Ewart,* with a message from you, 
pressing me to the performance of this task, 
I thought myself no longer at liberty to de- 
cline it, and resolved to set about it with my 
first leisure. I will now therefore endeavour 
to lay before you what has occurred to my 
mind, on a subject where people capable of 
observation and of placing their remarks in a 
proper point of view, have seldom an oppor- 
tunity of making their remarks on real life. 
In doing this, 1 may perhaps be led some- 
times to write more in the manner of a per- 
son communicating information to you which 
you did not know before, and at other times 
more in the style of egotism, than I would 
choose to do to any person, in whose can- 
dour, and even personal good will, I had less 
confidence. 

There are two several lines of study that 
open to every man as he enters life : the one, 
the general science of life, of duty, and of 
happiness ; the other, the particular arts of 
his employment or situation in society, and 
the several bran<hes of knowledge therewith 
connected. This last is certainly indispen- 
sable, as nothing can be more disgraceful 
than ignorance in the way of one's own pro- 
fession ; and whatever a man's speculative 
knowledge may be, if he is ill-informed there, 
he can neither be a useful nor a respectable 
member of society. It is nevertaeless true, 
that " the proper study of mankind is man ;" 

* The Editor's friend Mr. Peter Evvart of Man- 
chester. E. 



to consider what duties are incumbent on him 
as a rational creature, and a member of so- 
ciety ; how he may increase or secure his 
happiness : and how he may prevent or soft- 
en the many miseries incident to human life. 
I think the pursuit of happiness is too fre- 
quently confined to the endeavour afl.er the 
acquisition of wealth. I do not wish to be 
considered as an idle declaimer against riches, 
which, after all that can be said against them, 
will still be considered by men of common 
sense as objects of importance ; and poverty 
felt as a sore evil, after all the fine things that 
can be said of its advantages , on the con- 
trary I am of opinion, that a great proportion 
of the miseries of life arise from the want of 
economy, and a prudent attention to money, 
or the ill-directed or intemperate pursuit of 
it. But however valuable riches may be as 
the means of comfort, independence, and the 
pleasure of doing good to others, yet I am of 
opinion, that they may be, and frequently are, 
purchased at too great a cost, and that sacri- 
fices are made in the pursuit, which the ac- 
quisition cannot compensate. I remember 
hearing my worthy teacher, Mr. Murdoch, 
relate an anecdote to my father, which I 
think sets this matter in a strong- light, and 
perhaps was the origin, or at least tended to 
promote this way of thinking in me. When 
Mr. Murdoch left Alloway, he went to teach 
and reside in the family of an opulent farmer 
who had a number of sons. A neighbour 
coming on a visit, in the course of conver- 
sation, asked the father how he meant to dis- 
po.se of his sons. The father replied that he 
had not determined. The visitor said, that 
were he in his place he would give them 
all a good education and send them abroad, 
v^ithout (perhaps) having a precise idea 
where. The father objected, that many 
young men lost their health in foreign coun- 
tries, and many their lives, rrue, replied 
the visitor, but as you have a number of 
sons, it will be strange if some one of them 
does not live and make a forttme. 

Let any person who has the feelings of a 
father, comment on this story ; but though 
few will avow, even to themselves that such 
views govern their conduct, yet do we not 
daily see people shipping off their sons (and 
who would do so by their daughters also, if 
there were anj" demand for them,) that they 
may be rich or perish .'' 

The education f f the lower classes is sel- 
dom considered in any other point of view, 
than a.« the means of raising them from that 
station to which they were born, and of mak- 
ing a fortune. I am ignorant of the myste- 
ries of the art of acquiring a fortune without 
• ny thing to begin with; and cannot calcu- 
late, with any degree of exactness, the diffi- 
culties to be surmounted, the mortifications 
to be suffered, and the degradation of cha- 
racter to be submitted to, in lending one's 
self to be the minister of other people's vices, 
or in the practice of rapine, fraud, oppres- 



224 



APPENDIX. 



sion, or dissimulation, in the progress ; but 
even when the wished for end is attained, it 
may be questionjed whether happiness be 
much increased by the change. When I 
have seen a fortunate adventurer of the low- 
er ranks of life returned from the East or 
West ladies, with all the hauteur of a vulgar 
mind accustomed to be served by slaves, as- 
suming a character which, from the early 
habitsliflife, he is ill-fitted to support, dis- 
playing magnificence which raises the envy 
of some, and the contempt of others, claim- 
ing an equality with the great, which they 
are unwilling to allow; inly pining at the 
precedence of the hereditary gentry ; mad- 
dened by the polished insolence of some of 
the unworthy part of them ; seeking plea- 
sure in the society of men who can conde- 
scend to flatter him, and listen to his ab- 
surdity for the sake of a good dinner and 
good wine : I cannot avoid concluding, that 
his brother, or companion, who, by a diligent 
application to the labours of agriculture, or 
some Useful mechanic employment, and the 
careful husbanding of his gaiiis, has acquired 
a competence in his station, is a much hap- 
pier, and, in the eye of a person who can 
take an enlarged view of mankind, a much 
more respectable man. 

But the votaries of wealth may bo consi- 
dered as a great number of candidates striving 
for a ^evf prizes : and whatever addition the 
, successful may make to their pleasure or 
happiness, the disappointed will always have 
more to suffer, I am afraid, than those who 
abide contented in the station to which they 
were born. I wish, therefore, the education 
of the lower classes to be promoted and di- 
rected to their improvement as men, as the 
means of increasing their virtue, and open- 
ing to them new and dignified sources of 
pleasure and happiness. 1 have heard some 
people object to the education of the lower 
classes of men, as rendering them less useful, 
by abstracting them from their proper busi- 
ness ; others, as tending to make them saucy 
to their superiors, impatient of their condi- 
tion, and turbulent subjects; while you, with 
more humanity, have your fears alarmed, lest 
the delicacy of mind, induced by that sort of 
education and reading I recommend, should 
render the evils of their situation insupport- 
able to them. I wish to examine the validity 
of each of these objections, beginning with 
the one you have mentioned. 

I do not mean to controvert your criti- 
cism of my favourite books, the Mirror and 
Lounger, although I understand there are 
people who think themselves judges, who 
do not agree with you. The acquisition of 
knowledge, except what is connected with 
human life and conduct, or the particular 
business of his employment, does not appear 
to me to be the fittest pursuit for a peasant. 
I would say with the poet, 
" How empty learning, and how vain is art, 
Save where it guides the life, or mends ihe heart." 



There seems to be a considerable latitude 
in the use of the word taste. I understand 
it to be the perception and relish of beauty, 
order, t>x any thing, the contemplation of 
which gives pleasure and delight to the mind. 
I suppose it is in this sense you wish it to be 
understood. If I am right, the taste which 
these books are calculated to cultivate (be- 
sides the taste for fine writing, which many 
of the papers tend to improve and to gratify,) 
is what is proper, consistent, and becoming 
in human character and conduct, as almost 
every paper relates to these subjects. 

I am sorry I have not these books by me, 
that I might point out some instances. I 
remember two ; one the beautiful story of 
La Roch, where, besides the pleasure one 
derives from a beautiful simple story, told in 
M'Kenzie's happiest manner, the mind is led 
to taste with heartfelt rapture, the consola- 
tion to be derived in deep affliction, from ha- 
bitual devotion and trust in Almighty God. 

The other, the story of general W , 

where the reader is led to have a high relish 
for that firmness of mind which disregards 
appearances, the common forms and vanities 
of life, for the sake of doing justice in a case 
which was out of the reach of human laws. 

Allow me then to remark, that if the mo- 
rality of these books is subordinate to the 
cultivation of taste ; that taste, that refine- 
ment of mind and delicacy of sentiment 
which they arc intended to give, are the 
strongest guard and surest foundation of mo- 
rality and virtue. — Other moralists guard, 
as it were, the overt act; these papers, by 
exalting duty into sentiment, are calculated 
to make every deviation from rectitude and 
propriety of conduct, painful to the mind, 
•' Whose temper'd powers, 
Refine at length, and every passion wears 
A chaster, milder, more attractive mien." 

I readily grant you, that the refinement of 
mind which I contend for, increases our sen- 
sibility to the evils of life! but what station 
of life is without its evils.'' There seems to 
be no such thing as perfect happiness in this 
world, and we must balance the pleasure and 
the pain which we derive from taste, before 
we can properly appreciate it in the case be- 
fore us. I apprehend that on a minute ex- 
amination it will appear, that the evils pecu- 
liar to the lower ranks of life, derive their 
power to wound us, more from the sugges- 
tions of false pride, and the "contagion of 
luxury, weak and vile," than the refinement 
of our taste. It was a favourite remark of 
my brother's, that there was no part of the 
constitution of our nature, to which we were 
more indebted, than that by which '* Custom 
makes things familiar and easy" (a copy Mr. 
Murdoch used to set us to write,) and there 
is little labour which custom will not make 
easy to a man in health, if he is not ashamed 
of his employment, or does not begin to com- 
pare his situation with those he may see go- 
in£ about at their ease. 



APPENDIX. 



225 



But the man of enlarged mind feels the 
respect due to him as a man ; he has learned 
that no employment is dishonourable in it- 
self; that while i>e performs aright the du- 
ties of that station in which God has placed 
him, he is as great as a king in the eyes of 
Him whom he is principally desirous to 
please ; for the man of taste, who is con- 
stantly obliged to labour, must of necessity 
be religious. If you teach him only to rea- 
son, you may make him an atheist, a dema- 
gogue, or any vile thing ; but if you teach 
him to feel, his feelings can only find their 
proper and natural relief in devotion and re- 
ligious resignation. He knows that those 
people who are to appearance at ease, are 
not without their share of evils, and that 
even toil itself is not destitute of advantages. 
He listens to the words of his favourite poet : 
*' O mortal man, that livest here by toil, 

Cease to repine and grudge thy hard estate ! 
That like an emmet thou must ever moil, 

Is a sad sentence of an ancient date ; 
And, certes, there is for it reason great ; 

Although sometimes it makes thee weep and 
wail. 
And curse thy star, and early drudge, and late ; 
Withouten that would come an heavier bale, 
Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale! " 
And, while he repeats the words, the grate- 
ful recollection comes across his mind, how 
often he has derived ineffable pleasure from 
the sweet song of " Natures darling child." 
I can say, from my own experience, that 
there is no sort of farm labour inconsistent 
with the most refined and pleasurable state 
of the mind that I am acquainted with, thrash- 
ing alone excepted. That, indeed, I have al- 
ways considered as insupportable drudgery, 
and think the ingenious mechanic who in- 
vented the thrashing machine, ought to have 
a statue among the benefactors of his coun- 
try, and should be placed in the niche next 
to the person who introduced the culture of 
potatoes into this island. 

Perhaps the thing of most importance in 
the education of the common people is, to 
prevent the intrusion of artificial wants. I 
bless the memory of my worthy father for al- 
most every thing in the dispositions of my 
mind, and my habits of life, which I can ap- 
prove of; and for none more than the pains 
he took to impress my mind with the senti- 
ment, that nothing was more unworthy the 
character of a man, than that his happiness 
should in the least depend on what he should 
eat or drink. So early did he impress my 
mind with this, that although I was as fond 
of sweetmeats as children generally are, yet 
I seldom laid out any of the half-pence which 
relations or neighbours gave me at fairs, in 
the purchase of them ; and if I did, every 
mouthful I swallowed was accompanied with 
shame and remorse ; and to this hour I never 
indulge in the use of any delicacy, but I feel 
a considerable degree of self-reproach and 
alarm for the degradation of the human cha- 
racter, guch a habit of thinking I consider 



as of great consequence, both to the virtue 
and happiness of men in the lower ranks of 
life. And (bus, Sir, I am of opinion, that if 
their minds are early and deeply impressed 
with a sense of the dignity of man, as such; 
with the love of independence and of indus- 
try, economy and temperance, as the most 
obvious means of making themselves inde- 
pendent, and the virtues most becoming their 
situation, and i ecessary to their happiness ; 
men in the lower ranks of life may partake 
of the pleasures to be derived from the pe- 
rusal of books calculated to improve the 
mind and refine the taste, without any dan- 
ger oi becoming more unhappy in their situa- 
tion or discontented with it. Nor do I think 
there is any danger of their becoming less 
useful. There are some hours every day 
that the most constant labourer is neither at 
work nor asleep. These hours are either ap- 
propriated to amusement or to sloth. If a. 
taste for employing these hours in reading 
were cultivated, I do not suppose that the re- 
turn to labour would be more difficult. — 
Every one will allow, that the attachment to 
idle amusements, or even to sloth, has as 
powerful a tendency to abstract men from 
their proper business, as the attachment to 
books ; while the one dissipates the mind, 
and the other tends to increase its powers of 
self-government. To those who are afraid 
that the improvement of the minds of the 
common people might be dangerous to the 
state, or the established order of society, i 
would remark, that turbulence and commo- 
tion are certainly very inimical to the feel- 
ings of a refined mind. Let the matter be 
brought to the test of experience and obser- 
vation. Of what description of people are 
mobs and insurrections composed .'' Are they 
not universally owing to the want of enlarge- 
ment and improvement of mind among the 
common people ? Nay, let any one recollect 
the characters of those who formed the calmer 
and more deliberate associations, which late- 
ly gave so much alarm to the government of 
this country. I suppose few of the common 
people who were to be found in such socie- 
ties, had the education and turn of mind I 
have been endeavouring to recommend. — 
Allow me to suggest one reason for endea- 
vouring to enlighten the minds of the com- 
mon people. Their morals have hitherto 
been guarded by a sort of dim religious awe, 
which from a variety of causes, seems wear- 
ing off. I think the alteration in this respect 
considerable, in the short period of my ob- 
servation. I have already given my opinion 
of the effects of refinement of mind on morals 
and virtue. Whenever vulgar minds begin 
to shake off the dogmas of the religion in 
which they have been educated, the progress 
is quick and immediate to downright infi- 
delity ; and nothing but refinement of mind 
can enable them to distinguish between the 
pure essence of religion, and the gross sys- 
tems which men have been perpetually con- 
necting it with. In addition to what has al- 



226 



APPENDIX. 



ready been done for the education of the 
common people of this country, in the esta- 
blishment of parish schools, I wish to see the 
salaries augmented in some proportion to the 
present expence of living, and the earnings 
of people of similar rank, endowments, and 
usefulness in society , and I hope thai the li- 
berality of the present age will be no longer 
disgraced by refusing, to so useful a class of 
men, such encouragement as may make pa- 
rish schools wor hthe attention of men fitted 
for the important duties of that office. In 
filling up the vacancies, I would have more 
attention paid to the candidate's capacity of 
reading the English language with grace 
and propriety ; to his understanding tho- 
roughly, and having a high relish tor the 
beauties of English authors, both in poetry 
and prose ; to that good sense and knowledge 
of human nature which would enable him to 
acquire some influence on the minds and af- 
fections of his scholars ; to the general worth 
of his character, and the love of his king and 
his country, than to his proficiency in the 
knowledge of Latin and Greek. I would 
then have a sort of high Engll^h class esta- 
blished, not only for the purpose of teaching 
the pupils to read in that graceful and ; gree- 
able manner that might make them fond of 
reading, but to make them understand what 
they read, and discover the beauties of the 
author, in composition and sentiment. I 
would have established in every parish, a 
small circulating library, consisting of the 
books which the young people had read ex- 
tracts from in the collections they had read 
at school, and any other books well calcu- 
lated to refine the mind, improve the moral 
feelings, recommend the practice of virtue, 
and communicate such knowledge as might j 
be useful and suitable to the labouring classes j 
of men. [ would have the schoolmaster act 
as librarian, and in recommending books to 
his young friends, formerly his pupils, and 
letting in the light of them upon their young 
minds, he should have the assistance of the 
minister. If once such education were be- 
come general, the low delights of the public 
house, and other scenes of riot and depravi- 
ty, would be contemned and neglected: 
while industry, order, cleanliness, and every 
virtue which taste and independence of niind 
could recommend, would prevail and flourish. 
Thus possessed of a virtuous and enlightened 



populace, with high delight I should consider 
my native country as at the head of all the 
nations of the earth, ancient or modern. 

Thus. Sir, have I executed my threat to 
the fullest extent, in regard to the length of 
my letter. If I had not presumed on doing 
it more to my liking. I should not have un- 
dertaken it ; but I have not time to attempt 
it anew ; nor, if 1 would, am I certain that I 
should succeed any better. I have learned 
to have less confidence in my capacity of 
writing on such subjects. 

I am much obliged by your kind inquiries 
about my situation and prospects. I am 
much pleased with the soil of this farm, and 
with the terms on which I possess it. I re- 
ceive great encouragement likewise in build- 
ing, enclosing, and (>ther conveniences, from 
my landlord, Mr. G. S. Monteith, whose ge- 
neral character and conduct, as a landlord 
and country gentleman, I am highly pleased 
with. But the land is in such a state as to 
require a considerable immediate outlay of 
money in the purchase of manure, the grub- 
bing of brush-wood, removing of stcmes, &c. 
which twelve years' struggle with a farm of 
a cold, ungrateful soil, has but ill prepared 
me for. If I can get these things done, how- 
ever, to my mind, I think there is next to a 
certainty that in five or six years, I shall be 
in a hopeful way ot attaining a situation which 
I think as eligible for happiness as any one I 
know ; for I have aUvays been of opinion, 
that if a man bred to the habits of a farming 
life, who possesses a farm of a good soil, on 
such terms as enables him easily to pay all 
demands, is not happy, he ought to look 
somewhere else than to his situation for the 
causes of his uneasiness. 

I beg you will present my most respectful 
compliments to Mrs. Currie, and remember 
me to Mr. and Mrs. Roscoe, and Mr.Roscoe, 
junior, whose kind attentions to me, when in 
Liverpool, I shall never forget. 

I am, dear Sir, 

Your most obedient, and 

Much obliged, humble Servant, 

GILBERT BURNS. 

To James Currie, M.D. F.R.S. 
Liverpool. 



FINIS. 



i 



« 



II 



(I 



il 



I 







Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatnfient Date: March 2009 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Drive 



ti 



i 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




014 455 003 1 



